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motorsportbarbie13 · 3 days ago

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The Yapping Hour Is Upon Us - The Royal Wedding

In which you and Max tie the knot.

Warnings: just fluff. a bit of anxiety talk but nothing Max can't fix. Pairing: Max Verstappen x Podcaster!Reader Word Count: 5k

- The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 2 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 3 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Part 4 - The Yapping Hour is Upon Us - Bonus Sessions - Master List

After getting engaged, there were two things that you and Max almost immediately agreed upon: first, because so much of both of your lives were already available for public consumption, you wanted to protect the peace and privacy of your wedding as much as possible. And second, you didn’t want to wait until the next summer break to get married.

Growing up, it was a cliche fact but a fact all the same, that you often thought of what you wanted your wedding to be like. You were even very much guilty of having secret wedding Pinterest boards set up all through high school and college. But the moment the even presented itself in real life, you suddenly felt choked by the weight of what a big wedding could entail.

It had been Max that had suggested the solution in the end, his idea passed by you casually one night as you walked hand in hand back to your hotel after dinner before the race in Italy. He had sensed your hesitation around hosting such a big, over the top wedding that everyone seemed to assume you wanted. The spark in your eye faded just a bit when Alex and Carmen had started talking about wedding venues and guest lists and he hadn’t missed the way your shoulders hitched up a bit more towards your ears as you listened to your friends ramble.

“What if we just eloped?” He works to keep his tone causal, not wanting to give away how appealing that idea sounds to him. He wants you to choose the kind and scale of wedding you want all on your own because he knows you’d do anything for him, right down to agreeing to plan a wedding that doesn’t suit you at all.

You stop dead in your tracks, Birkin bag swinging wildly at your elbow from the sudden halt. “What?”

Max sticks his hands deep in the pockets of his khakis, giving you a knowing smile. “You heard me. What if we just said ‘fuck this’ and ran off to the beach and got married by some old fishing captain. Captains can legally marry people, right? That’s a thing?”

Not for the first time in your relationship, you’re stunned into silence at something your soon-to-be husband says. For a moment all you can do is blink at him, trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you or not. “You’d…you’d want that?”

Max steps forward, earnest look on his handsome face. “Baby,” He murmurs, framing both sides of your face with his strong hands. “Baby, I’d marry you in an alley way in the middle of New York City. I don’t care where or how, all I care about is that we come out at the end of this married and tied together for life. I don’t care about the wedding, I care about the marriage.”

Max watches as your pupils blow wide, shy smile tugging at your lips. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Max’s forehead rests on yours and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “Well, it’s true. I want you to have the wedding of your dreams because I know that will make you happy but other than that, I don’t care.”

He’d do anything to make sure you were happy, knowing it was just this side of obsessive the way he took you into consideration with every decision he made. Standing opposite of the man who consumed your entire soul, your stomach dipped low, the pleasant swooping sensation something you’ve become accustomed to over the last year. “I just feel so overwhelmed. Both of our lives are already so public and under scrutiny. I want this to be something that we can cherish without any of the potential tarnish of what it means to be so public.”

You shake your head, feeling a little silly and what you’re feeling. “I love our lives and know we’re privileged to live like this but sometimes I just want to have something that’s just ours. I want to share our love and relationship with everyone but maybe we could just shield some of it from the world?”

An idea forms in Max’s head then. “What if we eloped somewhere just the two of us and then have a party to celebrate with everyone after?”

You nod, “Have is quietly ours for a while before sharing the news with everyone?”

Max reaches for you, enjoying the way you press against him with ease. It’s a warm Italian summer night, the scent of perfumed flowers and left over sunshine hung heavy in the air and you wanted to snap this moment into something that stayed with you forever. Max’s hands heavy on your hips, digging into the flesh there as if he can’t get enough of you despite not leaving your side for the last 24 hours.

Ever since getting engaged, you’d hated spending any length of time away from Max, almost like your soul had already started to twin itself to him. It made leaving difficult but returning was always so sweet. You had this weekend in Italy before you had to leave on another trip but you’d been considering ramping down your travel over the next few months. But, that was another conversation for another day.

“Where would we go? And when?” The more you thought bout it, the more the thought of what Max was suggesting appealed to you.

Max releases you before taking your hand as you two start back towards your hotel, feeling a bit lighter at seemingly solving the problem that had been weighing on you for a few days.

“We could do it this winter? There’s always a total shut down of everything that week between Christmas and New Years. We’d see our families for Christmas and escape saying we were just taking a trip the two of us.”

You grin up at him, liking where he was going with this.

yourpersonalinsta posted

129,938 likes liked by yourdad, assistantshannon, maxverstappen1, and others yourpersonalisnta sun, sand, and a very cute finace kikagomes is this that place in Mexico you were talking about?! It looks so pretty! >>>yourpersonalinsta yes!!! it is gorgeous. you and P need to come here some day. alexandrasaintmleux gorgeous gorgeous girl >>>yourpersonalinsta love you bby user029 dream life fr user0092 looks like paradise! tell max congrats on his 5th title for us!!

December, 2025

The warm ocean breeze fluttered through the wide open doors of the villa behind you as the bright December sun heated your skin where you laid on a lounge chair. Next to you, Max was sprawled out on on the chair next to you, snoring softly as he took what you thought might just be his third nap of the day.

Ever since the pair of you had arrived in Mexico a few days ago, you hand’t done much beyond sleep, eat, and fuck. The 2025 season had been the most stressful, chaotic, out of control season Max had ever had and while he had managed to clinch the championship on in Abu Dhabi from Lando, but it had been a difficult ride to get there. So when Christmas had been celebrated and you had jumped on the jet to fly from Monaco over to Mexico, you couldn’t help but continually breathe a sigh of relief.

The fight had truly weighed on Max, the hollows underneath his eyes growing more and more prominent as the race weeks ticked by. The only relief he had gotten had been your midseason trip to Thailand when he had proposed. When Jensen had asked him what had gotten him through the difficult second half of the season during an interview after he won the championship, his immediate answer had simply been you.

Much to the disappointment of your fans, you had decided to really ramp down the amount of travel and work you had done following the summer break. Max had been resident at first, not even wanting to entertain he conversation at first when you had brought it up shortly after it had been decided you were going to elope. He didn’t want to even think of you putting your career on hold for him, to take care of him, to follow him. Not because he didn’t want you around. It was the exact opposite. Just the thought of you spending more time traveling with him instead of the insane schedule you’d been keeping over the last year had relief flooding through him. While he was tired from his schedule and the pressure of winning a 5th consecutive world title, he knew you were tired too. There were many times you both went weeks without setting foot in your shared apartment and sometimes you’d go weeks between seeing each other too.

No, it wasn’t because he didn’t want you around. It was because he didn’t want you to resent him one day down the line that you had given up your career for him. He couldn’t bare the thought of being the cause of any resentment or heartache for you and despite how much he wanted you by his side every possible moment.

In the end, reason had won out as you had explained that you weren’t taking a break because of him. He was certainly part of it, but like him, you were exhausted. You reminded Max of Brazil last year, how you had slept for so long the day after the race there that Max had postponed your flights home for another week he was so worried about you getting sick.

You had done a few interviews since the engagement, mostly with people in the motorsport world: Susie and Toto Wolff, Natalie Pinkham, and of course Lewis being your biggest interviews. In addition, you had done some post race interviews and coverage for F1TV, which allowed you to have even more of a reason to be in the paddock week in and week out. You weren’t sure where your podcast was going in the future, but for now, you were content with the schedule and where you were professionally, despite what some of your critics might be whispering.

All of this works through your mind as Max begins to stir beside you. His eyes blink open eventually and when they do, they immediately find you. “Hi baby.” He whispers, voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” You grin, setting your book down beside you as Max rolls over onto his side, creating some space for you on the oversized lounge chair, beckoning you to join him.

As you snuggle deeper into his chest, Max slots his thigh between your legs and slips his top arm over your waist, pulling you closer. “You looked deep in thought. Everything okay?” He murmurs before his lips ghost over your cheek.

“Hmmm, of course. Just thinking about this year and how good it feels to just breathe.”

Max could tell when you got in one of your thinking moods just by the way your body language shifted. In those few moments between when he had woken up and you had noticed his eyes open, he had watched you staring out over the villa’s lawn. Your shoulders were relaxed, the usual pinch between your brows completely absent and with legs crossed at your ankles as you read your book, you had looked the picture of relaxed.

“You still feeling okay about tomorrow?”

Just the thought of what tomorrow would bring made your heart rate pitch up a bit. The first morning after your arrival, you and Max had gone over to the concierge in the main reception building to tell them of your plans for an elopement. They had, of course, been ecstatic and ready to help you in whatever way you wanted. After a few hours of discussion, you had everything planned and the concierge snapped into action.

“I am…unless you’re not?” It occurs to you that Max has been awfully quiet this morning, a soft reflective mood taking over his usual energetic attitude and suddenly, anxiety pinches in your chest. You desperately search Max’s face for any sign of hesitation or regret, not knowing what you’d do if he suddenly got cold feet before tomorrow.

Max shakes his head before pulling you even closer, fingers digging into the bare flesh of your hip, covered only by the little string of your bikini that you’ve been living in since you got here. “Lifeje, stop that. You know I would have married you the moment after I proposed to you months ago.”

Something settles in you at his words, having just needed that little bit of reassurance from him. As hard as you tired and as much as Max made sure to never leave any doubt in your mind that he was all in with you, you sometimes still found your anxiety getting the best of you. Scenarios about how Max was having second thoughts, how he didn’t really want to marry you, how this was all in your head sometimes ran rampant in your head. You were getting better at controlling them, especially after he had proposed but that was the funny thing about anxiety, you couldn’t always control it.

“I know.” You whisper, fingers trailing up and down his toned arm that was wrapped around you tightly.

“Anxiety?” It was almost spooky how well Max could read you from just a shift in your tone of voice. All you could do was nod, suddenly feeling silly. Max rolled his hips into yours, pulling your lower half closer. “Do you feel what you do to me?” He asked, pressing his already half hard cock into your center. “Do you feel what you do to me just laying here? All you have to do is look at me and I’m a goner. There isn’t a single second thought in my mind, love.”

“I’m sorry I’m hard to love sometimes.” Tears prick at the corner of your eyes as Max lifts your chin so he can have a better look at you. “I’m sorry you have to constantly reassure me despite not giving me any reason to doubt you. I know it can’t be easy.”

You had spent most of your adult life being told how difficult you were to love. How hard it was to deal with the constant reassurance you needed when the anxiety crept in, telling you you weren’t good enough. It was unnerving sometimes when Max loved you so easily and effortlessly because how did he find it so easy to do when no one else before him had?

Max pulls back so he can get a good look in those pretty eyes of yours. It made him rage internally knowing how insecure you were. Not because he faulted you. Oh, absolutely not. He raged at the people that made you feel like you were inferior and hard to love because that was something that he simply didn’t see. Loving you and being with you was the easiest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“I want you to listen to me, okay?” He waits, brows raised, until you nod. “I will gladly spend the rest of my life telling you how much I worship you whenever and however you need or want me to. When I take those vows tomorrow, I mean it with every bit of my soul, schatje. For worse or better, you’re mine and I’m yours from tomorrow on, okay? You are not hard to love and I am so lucky I get the privilege of telling you every single day how much I love you.”

Your mind settles a bit at his words as you let the sensation of having Max so close to you wash over your anxious nerves. “How did I get so lucky to have you?”

“Oh, sweet girl it’s not you that’s lucky.” Max leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips as you sigh into him. “I’m the lucky one that somehow coincided you to love me back.”

There were only two people in your lives besides you and Max that knew what you two were really doing in Mexico. GP because Max was physically incapable of keeping anything from his race engineer and your assistant Shannon. GP had called Max out on his sudden change in demeanor in Italy after the decision to elope had been made, asking Max what had happened in the previous 12 hours to make him not so grumpy when he showed up to the track that morning. Max being a terrible liar when it came to GP had been unable to think quick enough to come up with an excuse and when he had simply looked at GP with a deer in the headlights look, he had fessed up and spilled the beans. When you had found out that Max had told GP you had sworn the race engineer to total secrecy, telling him you’d cut off a very important body part of his if it got leaked.

Shannon was the other person that knew and it was only because you had needed help with choosing and figuring out how to sneakily order, tailor, and pack a wedding gown without anyone getting wind of it. You knew if the paparazzi had caught sight of you leaving a bridal boutique with a dress in hand nearly a year before you had told everyone else that you were planning on getting married, people would talk. So, with Max’s approval, you had enlisted the help of your personal assistant who had honestly turned into one of your closest friends over the time that she had worked with you.

It had been Shannon that helped you choose the dress that you wore the morning you married Max, the white lace clinging to every curve and valley of your body. It was just going to be the two of you, the officiant, and the photographer there and the utter quiet and simplicity of getting ready in complete silence and peace was something you would cherish for the rest of your life. Max had left the villa about an hour ago, telling you he had a few errands to run before the officiant would turn up for the ceremony. What kind of errands could he be doing in the middle of a luxury resort in the middle of the Mexican jungle, you had no idea but you hadn’t asked any questions because you wanted the time alone to get ready.

You’re just slipping on the second thin strap up over your shoulder when there’s a knock at the villa door moments before it swings open. Max comes bustling in, wearing the khaki pants and white linen shirt you had chosen for the beach nuptials. He’s got a fresh haircut and shaved face, his bright blue eyes looking for you the moment he walks in the door. In his hand dangles a little black bag with silver ties that doesn’t look big enough to hold much more than a small box or two.

“Lifeje, where are -” Max stops in his tracks when you round the corner out of the bedroom and he sees you for the first time. His hand goes straight to his sternum, rubbing at the place that is suddenly aching at the mere sight of you. He had thought he’d been prepared to see you in your wedding dress but what he saw in front of him made every coherent thought tumble right out of his head. If he had thought you were the prettiest woman he’d ever seen before, seeing you standing there before him in the white lace dress with it’s plunging neckline and fabric clinging to your every curve, just confirmed that he was the luckiest person in the entire world. “Christ.” He whispers, unable to move from the spot he’s rooted to.

You let out a little uncertain giggle, tucking a piece of hair that you had left out of the sleek low bun you had styled your hair in for the day behind your ear. “Do I look okay?”

Max finds the ability to move then, crossing the room in just a few strides, suddenly needing nothing more than to touch you. He had to know what that lace felt like under his fingers, had to know if your skin looked as radiant up close as it did when he had first walked into the villa.

“I am so glad I wrote my vows down because there is no way I’m remembering anything while I look at you.” He croaks, voice becoming totally unreliable with emotion just seeing you dressed like this solely for him brings up. “I’ve never seen anyone more beautiful in my entire life, schatje. ”

And it was the truth. Max had never seen anyone as gorgeous as you were standing there in that white dress, veil tucked into the top of your bun so it cascaded down over your shoulders. The dress pools at your feet and dips low in the back, showing off the tanned and toned body you work so hard for. At your ears wink the diamonds Max had gotten you for Christmas just a week earlier. A diamond and sapphire necklace set in platinum sits at your throat, also a gift from Max for your one year anniversary earlier in the year. Seeing you wearing the jewels that he’s bought for you does something to Max, a possessive streak proudly zipping through him at the thought of you dripping in expensive baubles that he’s bought you.

“What’s in the bag?” You ask as Max settles his hands low on your hips, still checking you out with absolutely no shame whatsoever.

He seems to remember that there’s something else in the room other than you then, holding the bag out to you with a sly grin on his face. “I know we said our wedding bands were going to be our presents to each other but I saw this the other day when we were out shopping in that little jewelry store and had to go back to get it.”

You raise a brow but know better than to argue about Max spoiling you. It’s a lost cause at this point and you settled for just accepting the pretty things he liked to give you simply because he loved seeing you in them a long time ago. You take the bag from his hands and reaching in, you pull out a long, slender velvet box.

When you open the box, you barely stifle a gasp at the delicate bracelet sitting on the black satin. It’s the diamond and pearl tennis bracelet set in platinum that you had casually looked at yesterday when you and Max had gone into town to do some shopping and had mentioned in an off handed comment that you had liked how the pearls and diamonds worked so well together, although you had ultimately decided not to get it because of the price tag and the fact that you thought you’d never have anywhere to wear it.

“Max.” You whisper, gaze darting up from the box to Max’s own eager look. “It’s…it’s so pretty I don’t have the words. You spoil me.”

“And I’m going to continue to spoil you for the rest of our lives, lifeje. Now, can I put it on you so you can be dripping in diamonds for our wedding day, please?”

You laugh a little, somehow unsure of how you got this lucky to be here in Mexico marrying the man that literally worships the ground you walk on.

“Now, I understand that you both have written your vows for each other. Max, would you like to go first?”

Later that afternoon, the two of you stand barefoot on the beach, a gentle breeze teasing the veil at the back of your head, while the officiant the hotel recommended stands before you. The atmosphere could not be more perfect. The sun hangs low in the sky, sunset just an hour or two away so the golden rays cascade over you and Max. Behind you, the photographer you hired snaps discreetly away. The fact that it’s just the four of you on the beach witnessing this could not have been more perfect.

Max stands opposite you, large hands swallowing your smaller ones, and takes a deep breath. You can see the emotion playing plainly on his face and know he’s going to have a hard time getting through these words. For the outside world, Max Verstappen is a hardened competitor that takes no shit and will do anything to win. But here? On the beach with just you and 2 others as he professes his love and adoration to you, he’s as soft as kitten and almost more emotional than you are.

He couldn’t have been happier at his decision to write down the words to his vows because the emotions that swirled in him then, as he stands there looking at you in your wedding dress is so overwhelming he can barely put together a coherent thought. Here he was, the man that has won five world championships and zips around a race track at 200 miles per hour regularly, completely unable to speak he’s so happy.

The paper is a bit crumpled when he pulls it out of the pocket of his khakis but it’s fine all the same. He clears his throat nervously and then begins. “When Melissa suggested I go on your podcast, she said it would be an amazing PR opportunity for me. I think I told her no five times but on that sixth time, I agreed because GP said he thought I’d like you and then he sent me that interview. And then I walked into that studio on that cold, rainy April and have never thanked GP and Melissa so fast. That first time I saw you, I felt my entire world shift beneath my feet. Having the childhood I did ruined the idea of love for me for most of my life but the moment you waltzed into my life, schatje, I knew that you were going to show me how wrong I’d been. I love you endlessly and will forever be thankful that you’ve shown me what the meaning of real, true, unconditional love is.” Max takes a breath, swiping at an errant tear that falls down his cheek.

Across from him, you grip at his hands, desperately trying to commit this entire moment to memory. You’re endlessly glad you both had written your vows so you’d be able to look back and remember what was said today on this beach.

“I promise to love, honor, cherish, and spoil you,” He pauses when you chuckle and roll your eyes, but just squeezes your hand before continuing on. “Whatever you need, you’ll have. Whatever you want, it’s yours. I promise to spend the rest of my life making sure you never want for anything ever again, both material wants but also emotional wants. You are my number one priority from here on out and I vow to never ever stop living up to these promises. I never believed in soulmates until I saw you for the first time and words can’t accurately describe how much I love you. Having the title of your husband is worth a million and one world champion titles and I promise to spend the rest of my days proving that to you.”

The emotions ripple over you as Max concludes his vows. The officiant turns to you, dipping his head to let you know it’s now your turn. Max squeezes your hands together and you drown in the watercolor blue eyes looking back at you for a moment.

“I stopped believing in soulmates a long time ago. That is until you walked into that recording studio and looked at me like you’d known me for our entire lives. I tried so hard not to get ahead of myself for so long, but it was that first time you flew me down to Miami two weeks after meeting you that I knew. I knew that you were it for me, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. We’ve been through so much in such a short time and I know there are so many people that are going to think we’re criminally insane for doing this. But it’s nearly impossible to put into words what you’ve done to my soul in such a short time, Max. I know it’s beyond cliche but you’ve altered who I am at my very core. I’ve never been with someone so unwaveringly supportive of everything that I am and everything that I do.” You draw in a shaky breath then, needing a moment before you can make the rest of your words materialize.

“I promise to love you so unconditionally and strongly for the rest of my life. I promise to be by your side during the highs and lows of your career, on and off the track. The life we live is so fast and so difficult sometimes but just knowing that you’re on the other side of that plane ride, waiting for me to come home to you, makes everything we do worth it. I promise to give you whatever you need no matter how difficult it may be. You are my life now and I will spend the rest of my life showing up for you. Soulmates are real and you’re mine. I’m so thankful that I found you, Max. I love you.”

A quiet settles between you and Max then, the vows cementing the bond you’ve been building since that first day in the recording studio. The officiant and photographer seem to sense it too, their soft smiles playing on their lips as they give the vows that were just exchanged a chance to sink in for each of you.

Rings are exchanged and before you’re able to get a handle on things, the officiant declares you and Max husband and wife. The feeling of sheer relief and excitement washes over both you and Max as you’re told to seal the vows with a kiss. And what a kiss it is. Max pours his entire soul into the first kiss he shares with you as your husband. Everything he said in his vows being repeated by the way his lips cover yours, working over your mouth in such a way that has your knees buckling.

“I love you so much, wife.” Max murmurs against your lips just before breaking the first of many kisses between husband and wife.

maxverstappen1 posted

1,309,292 likes liked by yourpersonalinsta, redbullracing, assistant shannon, and others maxverstappen1 she's stuck with me forever now danielricciardo EXCUSE ME BUT WHAT THE FUCK user028 did they ELOPE??? Without telling ANYONE??? OH MY GOD??? HELLO??? user448 somehow, this feels very on brand for the both of them >>>user432 i was just thinking the same thing. charlesleclerc I'm sorry, WHAT??? yourpersonalinsta love you, husband >>>user0299 oh my god, i cannot be normal about this landonorris kinda heartbroken I didn't get to be the flower boy, ngl >>>user998 this is such a lando comment oscarpiastri wow! didn't even know you were engaged! congrats. man! >>>user332 why is this the most Oscar Piastri comment I've ever read??? >>>user948 HAHA OSCAR

yourpersonalinsta posted

1,029,398 likes liked by yourdad, maxverstappen1, assistantshannon, and others yourpersonalinsta wife>>>fiance user0298 the HAND PLACEMENT in that last photo. Max, my maaaan. user918 they eloped and didn't tell a single soul. i fucking love this so hard. kikagomes OH. MY. GOD. Congratulations gorgeous girl!!! >>>yourpersonalinsta love you pretty girl! user8892 my man wins his 5th world championship and then gets married in secret, max is winning at life rn assistantshannon so happy for you boss lady. you and max deserve the world. love you!!! >>>yourpersonalinsa so thankful i had your help with this, sweet girl. user827 are we just going to ignore the TATTOO on Max's wrist??? HER??? >>>user0291 oh my god oh my god

tag list: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland

#f1 #formula 1 #max verstappen #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #max verstappen fic #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fluff

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5sospenguinqueen · 1 day ago

Text

Tantrums Pt 2 | Lewis Hamilton x Reader

Summary: After flushing a ten year relationship down the drain, Lewis realises he wants nothing more than to win you back. Especially when he sees you doing everything in your will to make him suffer.

Warnings: slight age gap, reader is 32. angst. swearing. pettiness

Requested: @madelynn-sienna and a whole bunch of you on part 1

F1 Masterlist

This is a long one, sorry

prev.

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roscoelovescoco just posted

liked by albon_pets, charles_leclerc and others

roscoelovescoco i am’s 12 today’s 🥳 thanks for’s all’s the birthday’s love’s. just as handsome’s as ever’s

44,985 comments

lewishamilton happy birthday to my boy

yn_ln oh, i miss when he was that little. happy birthday to my cutest boy 💕

user1 not yn and lewis both using my boy instead of our boy

user2 i feel like lewis was behind this post ‘cause he used the cutest pic of him and roscoe

→ user3 yes, he looks so boyfriend coded in this

→ user4 i feel like that’s the point?

→ user5 i bet it’s because he’s trying to remind yn of how much she loves her boys

→ user4 but this doesn’t even include yn’s face

albon_pets happy birthday, roscoe! love from the whole gang

user6 everyone is saying lewis posted this to win yn back but i actually feel he’s posting this as a snub

→ user7 he hasn’t included yn’s face despite there being millions of pics of her and roscoe. like, that’s been her dog as well for the past 10 years

→ user8 i feel like these two are going to be really petty. i mean, look at how brocedes went

→ user9 i feel like you can’t let go of a 10 year relationship and not be slightly petty

user10 okay but lewis looks so good in this

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tagheuer just posted

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and others

tagheuer counting down to race time with our formula one collection ambassadors tagged: maxverstappen1, yn_ln

33,239 comments

yn_ln i think we all know who looks the best though

→ maxverstappen1 fire her

user1 queen’s been booked and busy lmao

user2 not the red bull brand

redbullracing the best looking ambassadors i’ve ever seen

user3 tag putting yn and max in the same post? does this mean they modelled together?

→ user4 she’s an ambassador for a brand that solely sponsors red bull and is showcasing their f1 collection. of course they modelled together

→ user5 we love to see it

user6 i bet lewis is frothing!

user7 we know who red bull is picking in the divorce

→ user8 like there was ever a question

user9 i just feel like george will be the one to show this to lewis by going “what do you think about this watch?”

→ user10 omg yes, he’ll show yn’s pic and say “do you think carmen would like this?” just to watch lewis realise who the model is liked by carmenmmundt

user11 i know she’s a model so will take the jobs she’s offered but i definitely feel like she accepted this to be a little petty

→ user12 what are the odds that she accepted it with a giggle

→ user13 as she should

redbullracing just posted

liked by carmenmmundt, schecoperez and others

redbullracing kicking off the mexican grand prix with some famous faces tagged: yn_ln

23,109 comments

maxverstappen1 famous faces? the only one i recognise here is me

→ yn_ln ha ha ha you’re hilarious.

→ user1 max and yn being besties? when did this happen?

→ yn_ln when we did our shoot for tag and he stuck by my side the entire time. like a child forced into a room with a bunch of their mum’s friends

→ maxverstappen1 you were the only person i knew!

user2 oh, this isn’t what i was expecting to see when i opened insta

mercedesamgf1 give her back

→ user3 messy

georgerussell63 oi, she doesn’t belong to you

→ user4 carmen clearly supports this move

→ georgerussell63 carmen! we can see that you liked this

user5 does this mean lewis and yn are truly over?

→ user6 no! i refuse to accept that this is how it ends

user7 lewis must be seething

user8 if anyone hears any loud crashes, that’s lewis throwing things

landonorris can we have you next?

→ oscarpiastri they seriously need to take away your media

user9 streets are saying that max was the one who invited her?

user10 please, red bull, fix that damn car so max qualifies at the top, away from lewis, because i fear for our boy’s safety after this

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, nicorosberg and others

yn_ln is this what you call an everyday car?

19,406 comments

user1 wait, what happened to her ferrari?

charles_leclerc i feel betrayed

→ yn_ln it’s not about you, i promise

porsche a pretty car for a pretty girl

→ yn_ln my dream car

→ user2 since, uh, when?

user3 is she starting a new collection of cars or is this in lieu of the ferrari?

→ user4 i fear she got rid of the ferrari

→ user5 or she’s kept it and just has the porsche in addition

user6 this is definitely a deliberate post. lewis bought her her dream car for their anniversary and not even months later, she’s buying a porsche?

→ user7 she can have more than one car

→ user8 yeah but she’s never been a multiple car owner and like user said. the ferrari was her dream car

user9 this feels like a dig at lewis

user10 i say good for her. a man wasted her time so she’s wasting his “gift”

user11 ultimate power move. if only red bull were still aston martin so she could’ve picked aston martin

user12 i bet lewis got mad at her for being in the red bull garage and she decided to wind him up further

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, roscoelovescoco and others

yn_ln 🖤💋

21,966 comments

carmenmmundt jaw droppped

→ yn_ln 🩷

user1 who is that man?

user2 she thought she could distract us with how hot she looks but we see that man, sis

user3 i hope this one treats her right and gives her everything she deserves

user4 bride yn incoming with a man who will marry her

francisca.cgomes i need that dress and the body in it

→ yn_ln i’ll send you the link, my gorgeous girl

user5 i’m glad she’s moving on because lewis did her dirty so it’s nice to see her recovering from that

georgerussell63 what’s all this then

→ user6 omg guys, george commented

→ user7 and?

→ user8 he hasn’t commented on any of her posts since her and lewis broke up. does this confirm that the guy in the pic is lewis?

→ user9 may your delulu come trululu

user10 i can’t deal with this today. i know yn deserves the best but she can’t move on

user11 i’m actually in mourning. wdym she’s moving on and getting super hot pics from it

lewishamilton 😅🫣

→ user12 excuse me? i found this comment hidden 1000s of comments down but excuse me?!

→ user13 what does this mean?!

→ user14 mate, if you want to win her back, you need to try harder

→ user15 he heard people talking about hot she looked and decided to hit her up

→ user16 this is such a pathetic attempt. what happened to his rizz

→ user17 looks like yn took it with her

yn_ln added a new story

lewishamilton added a new story

charles_leclerc added a new story

replies (tweet 1 and 3 are supposed to be swapped)

user1 @/tweet3 she was! kym illman posted her on instagram as their guest for the weekend

→ user2 she had a merc pass and everything

user3 i want to know who invited her and why. she doesn’t model for tommy anymore so she’d have no reason to be their guest

→ user4 i bet it was george

→ user5 nah. toto did it to throw lewis off so he could make his “shelf life” comment look real

user6 the real question is, did lewis know she was going to be there

user7 @/tweet2 we waited 10 years for lewis and yn’s wedding and we don’t get one ever?

→ user8 they broke up. we weren’t getting one anyway?

→ user7 streets are saying that yn and lewis got married in vegas

→ user8 be fucking real. he broke her heart

user9 @/tweet1 fully agree. i bet it was max and charles instead haha

→ danielricciardo he can back off my man!

→ user10 omg daniel. he may not be on the grid but max is his forever

user11 people are speculating that they got married because he posted a picture of a chapel?

→ user12 i know. that could mean literally anything?

user13 all the drivers were drunk celebrating max’s fourth wdc so i’m betting it’s a driver marrying another driver instead

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

9 months

lewishamilton just posted

liked by nicorosberg, mclaren and others

lewishamilton my whole world

50,440 comments

roscoelovescoco the’s cutest’s sister in all’s the world’s

user1 the man famous for long captions and he only gives us 3 words?! where’s the details!!

user2 when did this happen!!!

user3 and she has a wedding ring on? they definitely got married in vegas

user4 guys, she's just changed her name on socials!

georgerussell63 what happens in vegas, does NOT stay in vegas

charles_leclerc @/alexandrasaintmleux see, i told you we needed a dog AND a baby

→ yn_hamilton are you going to push the baby out?

→ charles_leclerc i would if biology let me

→ yn_hamilton @/lewishamilton why did you never say this to me?

→ lewishamilton i knew letting you two be friends was a bad idea

yn_hamilton i still can’t believe you brought the ring to vegas

→ lewishamilton i was feeling lucky

mercedesamgf1 you don’t tell us you got married and now you don’t tell us about the baby

→ scuderiaferrari he’s not your driver anymore?

→ mercedesamgf1 oop, my bad. used to seeing his name and being responsible for his pr

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

Baby Fever Angst Series

requests open

tag list

@how-what-why-huh @bibissparkles @strengthandstay @raynetargaryan2 @seonghwaexile @unknownmystery22 @hoeforsirius @jackandsallyandbuttonandsparrow @mbioooo0000 @unstablefemme @strawb3heart @wearethecanadians @ajordan2020 @topaz125 @seasonswinter @fearfam69691 @evie-119 @be-your-coffee-pot @myescapefromthislife @madelynn-sienna @heavy-vettel

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tangerinearchive · 2 days ago

Text

warming up

franco colapinto x teammate!reader

summary: franco is determined to make his teammate feel better with the perfect warm sweater.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: franco is slightly obsessed with reader, not much franco x reader action but still cute! two mentions of ‘yn’, shameless and jealous franco.

You had seriously underestimated how cold Vegas would actually be.

It seemed like everyone had warned you, ‘Bring sweaters, it will get cold’ they said, and yet you chose to ignore them. So your situation could’ve easily been avoided.

You gazed at Liam Lawson from the other side of the paddock, wishing nothing more that you were in his position, wrapped up in a blanket sitting right next to a heater.

You sighed, imagining what you would feel like if you were in his position, you were so focused that you didn't see or hear your teammate walk up behind you.

Franco looked at you with a smile, although he frowned when he realized you weren’t giving him his desired attention, he followed your gaze over to Liam, who was in the middle of an interview.

“What are we looking at?” he whispered in your ear, ignoring your slight jump.

“Jesus Franco,” you muttered, trying to calm yourself, “Liam looks real warm right now.”

Franco nodded, rolling his eyes slightly, “Yes. Because he had a blanket. Do you not see that?”

You gave him a look, “Of course, I see that. That is the whole point. I want to be warm.”

Franco gave you a look over, keeping his eyes on your bare arms, where he could see the cold making your hair stand up, he smiled, “Ah. Are you cold?”

“I can’t feel my fingers,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes forward, on Liam.

Franco frowned, holding back on asking why exactly you didn't bring a sweater, his stomach felt nauseous at the sight of you gazing at Liam with so much want.

Now, you weren’t exactly looking at Liam, more so his body temperature, but still, Franco would give anything to have you gaze at him.

He gasped, his face brightening, if he got you a sweater, there was no way you would be staring at Liam like that, you would be staring at him like that.

“I will be right back.” he spoke firmly, starting to back away, “Do not leave.” you watched him over your shoulder, giggling as he fumbled into a sprint.

—

“No, too ugly…” Franco mumbled to himself as he threw the sweater behind him, he pulled another from his small driver’s room closet, “No, too blue…” He threw this one behind him as well. Not noticing it landed on his trainer.

The man in question jumped in shock, pulling the Williams-style sweater off his head, “What the..” he mumbled, turning to Franco, who held up a knitted sweater, “Perfect..” he heard Franco whisper.

The trainer stared briefly, watching Franco go back scavenging through his closet. The trainer could only roll his eyes before slowly walking out of the room.

“I should get her two.” Franco whispered to himself, “In case she doesn’t like one of them..” he nodded to himself, continuing to throw sweaters he didnt deem fit behind him.

After ten minutes of back and forth, Franco existed his driver’s room content, he was going to be your night and shining armor, and then you’ll look at Franco with all the love in the world because he was the one to get you warm and cozy.

Just as he was going to make his way over to the media pen, where he had left you, he was pulled aside by your manager.

“(Y/N) was looking for you.” she informed him, Franco grumbled to himself, “I told her to stay in place, tonta.” (dummy)

“She got cold.” The woman defended you, “You left her out there…she waited for ten minutes.”

Franco held up the two sweaters in his arm with a frown, “I got her sweaters, so she would not be cold.”

Your manager eyes him with a smirk, “You spent ten minutes finding a sweater to give her?”

Franco shrugged, “I wanted to make sure they were warm.”

The woman tilted her head, “You know we have a merch store full of sweaters, right?”

Franco turned to her in disgust, “Mierda, those sweaters are like this,” he held his thumb and index together, “They are not warm. They need to be warm.” (shit)

“So you are giving her your sweaters?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that will make her fall in love with you?”

Franco leaned back in offense, “I do not need to make her fall for me…” he paused, “She is already in love with me, she just does not know it yet.”

The woman nodded with pursed lips, “Yeah because that’s a totally sane thing to say.”

Franco simply rolled his eyes, having had this conversation one too many times. So what if his obsession with you was just slightly worrying? It was all going to work out in the end, he just knew it. “Do you know where she went?”

Your manager thought for a moment. “She mentioned being hungry, so she probably went up to eat.”

And with that, Franco went off with a sprint.

—

Out of breath, and slight sweating, Franco entered the Williams dining room, eyes sweeping over the place with quick eyes. Only to feel a rush of disappointment when he didn't spot you.

He let out a deep disappointed sigh as he took a seat at the bar. The bartender watched him as he wallowed in pity.

Franco continued to let out deep, soul-searching sighs, catching the attention of those around him, the bartender walked but to him with an awkward smile, sliding over a glass of water.

“Hey Franco,” she started, he glanced up at her with a small smile, “You okay?” she whispered, leaning in, there were all different kinds of people around them, investors, fans, journalists, and no doubt searching for a bit of drama to hold onto, the last thing she wanted was for this interaction to be first-page news tomorrow morning.

“No.” Franco was blunt, “Was (Y/N) here?”

The lady nodded, “Yeah she just left actually. She got her usual–”

“Hot chocolate, whipped cream, caramel drizzle.” the two coursed.

The bartender leaned back, impressed, “You really know her.”

Franco shrugged, “She’ll be my wife one day, I need to know what she likes.”

The lady laughed, “Oh yeah? Does she know that?”

Franco tilted his head, “No sé. I don't think it's a secret that I like her.” (I don't know.)

The woman agreed; this was not the first time she’d heard about Franco being in love with you. It seemed like every time he and she talked, he managed to somehow make the conversation about you.

Now, she didn't know if the feelings were one-sided, the way you looked at Franco certainly made her think they weren't.

She hummed, “Well she took her hot chocolate to go, so I don't know where she went.”

Franco nodded, slowly moving off the chair, his sweaters both tightly secure in his clutch, “Okay then. If she comes back, tell her I'm looking for her.”

—

Franco was late to the fan stage, he had been so busy looking for you that he had lost track of time, and now he was being yelled at by his manager through the phone, demanding to know where he was.

It took him two minutes to run from the garage to the fan stage, he was recorded who knows how many times, and he was no doubt trending right now.

He had thrown the two sweaters in the arms of his manager when he arrived, wasting no time climbing the small steps up to the stage.

What he saw made his stomach drop, there you were in all your glory, wearing no other than a…mclaren puffer jacket. And you were talking to no other than…Lando Norris.

God, the smile on your face made Franco want to claw his eyes out, Lando had never been that funny.

Franco ignored the fans yelling his name, instead he squeezed in between you and Lando, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Hello,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on you.

Lando looked over at you with an amused smile before walking away, shaking his head slightly.

“Hi?” you questioned, glancing over to the fan’s direction weary, thankfully they seemed to be paying attention to Lando and Oscar, the latter seemingly saying something funny.

“I was looking for you.”

You winced, “Sorry but I got really cold, and then I got really hungry…”

Franco smiled softly, "It's okay…” he glanced down at your attire, “What are you wearing?”

You broke out into a smile, “Do you like it? Lando gave it to me, he said I looked cold.”

“I don't like it,” Franco stated simply, you leaned back, an offended look on your face. “Okay. Rude.”

“It’s really ugly, “ he continued, “You should change.”

You huffed, “I didn't bring any sweaters!”

Franco held up a finger before moving away. You rolled your eyes, moving back to the others on stage.

A couple minutes later you felt someone's presence behind you, you jumped slightly, feeling someone pulling on your jacket, looking back you saw Franco, a look on his face.

“Take this off,” he mumbled, you glanced to his shoulder, where two knitted sweaters lay. “Porfa?” he pleaded, seeing the hesitation on your face. (please)

Later that night, as the fan stage was wrapping up, Franco walked up to Lando, handing him the Mclaren jacket with a smile, “She didn't want it…” he muttered, “And she doesn't want you.” he added as an afterthought, shooting the Mclaren driver a smile before walking over to you.

#f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 x y/n #f1 x female reader #f1 x you #f1 #franco colapinto x you #franco colapinto fanfic #franco colapinto fluff #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto #franco colapinto x y/n #f1 social media au

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rottenfyre · 3 days ago

Text

⸻ ɴ ɪ ɢ ʜ ᴛ ᴡ ɪ ɴ ɢ ⸻

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Fem Reader

Headcanon: how would he be when he's obsessed?

Note: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Dick’s obsession isn’t born from malice or control—it’s born from love that he can’t let go of, love that consumes him and twists into something far more dangerous. His inherent empathy and need to protect mutate into suffocating possession when it comes to you.

You’re someone he meets while working as Nightwing—perhaps a civilian caught in the crossfire or someone aiding him on a mission. Your kindness, your bravery in the face of danger, captivates him. For someone like Dick, who has spent his life saving others, your ability to stand tall despite the world’s darkness becomes a light he can’t ignore.

But then the cracks begin to show.

You start noticing him everywhere. If you casually mention a favorite café, he’s suddenly a regular there too. When you run errands, he just happens to cross paths with you. At first, his bright smile and boyish charm disarm you. "What a coincidence," he says, as if he hasn’t been planning these encounters for days.

You come home one day to find an item you mentioned in passing—a book, a scarf, something small. There’s no note, but you know it’s from him. He swears it’s just a friendly gesture, but the way he watches you when you thank him says otherwise.

For Dick, these actions feel natural. He’s always been attentive to those he loves, always ready to go the extra mile. He doesn’t realize—or refuses to acknowledge—that these gestures aren’t innocent anymore.

When you’re hurt—even slightly—it awakens something primal. The fear of losing you mixes with the ghosts of everyone he’s lost before, and he can’t bear the thought.

Dick isn’t one to stalk in shadows; he convinces himself his obsession is protection. He keeps tabs on you, memorizing every detail of your routine. He tells himself he just wants to ensure your safety, but when you start to notice him everywhere—at the coffee shop you frequent, outside your workplace, even at your doorstep—it feels deliberate.

You confront him, but his response is calm, disarmingly charming.

“I’m just looking out for you. You mean too much to me.”

And there’s that vulnerability in his voice that makes it hard to push him away completely.

Dick’s obsession grows insidious. He’s subtle, using his charm and resourcefulness to insert himself into every corner of your life. A coworker who’s been bothering you suddenly transfers to another department. Your apartment’s locks mysteriously upgrade overnight, and Dick is the first to offer to show you how they work.

When someone flirts with you, the shift in his demeanor is terrifying. The usually affable, kind man becomes something colder, his jaw clenched as he watches from the sidelines. Later, the person who dared approach you ends up in a minor but suspicious accident.

“Don’t you see?” he tells you, his voice laced with desperation one night when you question his behavior. “I’ve already lost so much. I can’t lose you too.”

Dick doesn’t think he’s doing anything wrong. His obsession is rooted in his fear of abandonment, his compulsion to save everyone he cares about. But in trying to protect you, he becomes your greatest danger.

"You’re the only thing keeping me grounded.” He leans on you emotionally, making you feel guilty for trying to push him away.

"I’m doing this for us.” He convinces himself every action, no matter how bad, is for your benefit.

When you try to leave, it shatters him. Dick isn’t someone who handles rejection well when it comes to people he loves. He pleads at first, his voice breaking with emotion. But when you insist, you see the darker side of his devotion.

“I can’t let you go. Don’t you see? I need you.”

His obsession becomes suffocating. He starts isolating you, not out of malice, but because he genuinely believes the world outside is too dangerous for you.

The most chilling part of Dick’s obsession is his duality. By day, he’s the same charming, selfless man everyone admires. But with you, behind closed doors, he’s desperate, controlling, and unrelenting.

He’ll kiss your forehead softly, whispering, “I love you,” as if nothing is wrong.

But then he’ll cage you in with his presence, ensuring you can never leave.

In his mind, he’s your protector, your savior, and your soulmate. He would go to any lengths to keep you safe—even if that means keeping you locked away from the rest of the world. After all, he’s lost so much already. He won’t lose you, too.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ.

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megamindsecretlair · 2 days ago

Text

Give Me Everything

Pairing: Husband!Terry Richmond x Wife!Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. FLUFF, cursing, teasing, PIV, oral (male receiving), fingering (fem receiving), dirty talk, use of the n-word, all consensual. Sorry if I missed some.

Summary: Thanksgiving Day was always a hustle and bustle of activity and noise, two things you don’t usually like even coming from a big family. While you flitted around checking in on everyone, you couldn’t help feeling a little selfish. After sending Terry a sexy picture while he was seated next to your father, you sneak off to your childhood bedroom to fulfill a little fantasy of yours.

Word Count: 5,518k

AO3 Link

A/N: Ya'll thought I was gonna let the holiday pass without a little treat? I lost the drabble challenge, but well, can't fight my brain no matter how hard I try. Happy Thanksgiving, happy bank holiday, or however you celebrate, many love and blessings to the greatest group of people ever. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.

The rich smells of Thanksgiving food permeated the air and tickled your nostrils. You inhaled deeply as you flitted around the kitchen helping out the Aunties. No one messed with the Aunties on Thanksgiving.

You didn’t know how they managed to stay organized among the chaos. Between one of their husbands who constantly entered the kitchen asking when the food would be done and the little kids running throughout the house, it was a miracle they weren’t yelling and cursing up a storm.

“Fix me my medicine, baby,” Auntie Gee told you.

“Yes, ma’am,” you said. You pivoted away from helping Auntie Aileen with the yams and went over to the small pantry, grabbing supplies. You made a quick and dirty margarita for Auntie Gee and placed it in a glass. You already started in on another one because in one, two, three…

“I want one!” Auntie Mimi called out. You smiled to yourself, knowing your Aunties a little too well. Maybe you spent too much time around them all. But you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your big family was a handful at times. But at the end of the day, it was nothing but good vibes and great conversation. The Aunties were currently going on about their favorite man, Denzel Washington.

“That man been fine his whole goddamn life!” Auntie Hope called from the round kitchen table. She cleaned the greens, taking the stems off and putting them into a red bowl, to be soaked in the kitchen sink a little later. Right now, your mom was at the farmhouse sink peeling potatoes.

“Language, young lady!” Your grandmother, Grammy Alice, called out from the stove. She babysat the white sauce for the mac and cheese, carefully adding cheese and stirring to get the mixture right.

“Sorry, momma,” Auntie Hope said. She grinned at you and winked.

You giggled and handed Auntie Mimi her drink. “Thank you baby. You better get outta here before they snatch you to do something else,” she whispered.

And that’s why she was lowkey your favorite Auntie. You hugged and thanked her and then quietly slipped out while the Aunties discussed Denzel’s career. They categorically denounced Training Day as his best role. He was just playing a nigga, that’s all. They were stuck between John Q and Glory.

You left the spacious kitchen in a flash, disappearing around the corner and fell into the background as you soaked everything in. The well-decorated living room held most of the men yelling and screaming at the football game playing on the TV. They sat on the blue couch, lounge chairs, and picnic chairs all crowded around the large screen TV. You didn’t know a lick about the game, but by the sound of it, their team was making stupid ass decisions.

Kids played Monopoly on the floor, a mix of little kids and the quieter teens who didn’t want to play with the older, rowdier teens outside. You carefully picked your way through the living room, stopping to place a kiss on your Dad’s withered cheek. You patted his shoulder and he brought his hand up to pat yours.

“Everything alright?” He asked.

“Yes, sir. Food coming along,” you said.

He groaned aloud with the Uncles and boyfriends, everyone throwing up their hands and calling the ref out of his name.

“They need to get that blind mu’fucka off the field!” Uncle Cornell said. He was the only one semi-dressed up in a pair of slacks and a button up shirt. You didn’t know where Auntie Mimi found this character.

Your dad chuckled, returning his attention to you. “Good, good. I’ma just sit here until your mom says it’s time,” your dad said with a secret grin. He made the mistake of entering the kitchen early one year, reaching for a piece of the ham and receiving a swift spoon to the back of the hand from Grammy Alice. He still had a little scar from how hard she popped him.

“Probably for the best,” you said with a giggle.

You left the living room, trekking through the raucous house in search for a little bit of peace. As much as you loved how big your family was, you were decidedly the opposite sometimes. You didn’t draw strength from being around so many people. You craved the quiet and silence that came with being by your lonesome. Probably a consequence of being an only child.

Perhaps that was one of the main things that drew you to your husband, Terry. He was the opposite to your family as well. Calm under pressure, quiet and unassuming despite his size; he really was perfect for you.

You found him on the wide back porch with your cousins, sitting around a table playing dominoes. The teens and older cousins chased each other around the yard playing some game they made up years ago. You never understood the rules and your ass was too tired to continue chasing them around.

Some of the girl cousins watched their younger, baby siblings as they talked about whatever it was kids were into these days. Full. Your life was full to bursting and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You approached Terry and pecked his cheek. “Hey baby,” Terry said, lowering his dominoes to the table. He turned to you and wrapped his arm around your waist from his seated position.

“Just checking on you, is all,” you said. “You need anything?”

Terry used his free hand to lift his half empty beer bottle. “Naw, I should be good for a minute. You need anything?”

“She needs to leave the table so I can get back to whoopin’ yo ass, Marine boy!” Your cousin, Emery, yelled as he slammed down a domino. “Go on and put that thirty-five down for your boy!” He snickered as the game keeper, Darell, laughed and marked down Emery’s points.

Terry chuckled and shook his head. He peeked over at the scorecard on the notebook by Darell’s elbow. “Maybe you need to go back to math class. I’m still winning,” Terry said.

A chorus of oooh’s and damn’s and “You gon’ let him talk to you like that, playboy?” rung around the wooden table. Emery waved them all off, a small smile on his face.

“Alright, alright. Game ain’t over. Why don’t you go on? You killing the mood, girl,” Emery said.

“I’m killing the mood? Just like a hatin’ nigga to focus on somebody else while he losing,” you said.

“Damn!” Cousin Craig yelled out, his long skinny face cracking into a harsh, wheezing laugh that only triggered everybody else to start laughing.

You kissed Terry on the cheek once more, admiring the clean beard on his face. He looked good enough to eat himself. He wore a simple powder blue sweater with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of jeans that really showcased his sexy ass. Just looking at him caused your stomach to do little belly flips.

Terry squeezed your side and smirked up at you as if he saw the direction of your nasty thoughts. He winked at you and you bid your farewell to the men and their little game.

The majority of the day passed too quickly as you went from group to group, checking in on everyone. The domino game ended and the cousins joined the Uncles in the living room to check on the remainder of the game.

“Girl, don’t you ever sit down?” Your cousin, Robyn, asked. She was in your age group, relaxing with the other girl cousins who laid across multiple blankets, sipping their drinks of choice, and chilling out.

You chuckled. “Girl no. Between your momma and mine, I keep getting called to do something. And I feel like if I sit down, I’ma pass out,” you said, shaking your head.

Robyn and Ronda were twins of Auntie Aileen’s and they both shivered at the mention of their mother. “Please, don’t summon her,” Ronda said, shaking her head. “That lady trynna get me set up with her co-worker.” She stuck out her tongue and gagged.

“Not toxic enough for you?” Auntie Hope’s daughter, Stacie, asked.

“Hell no! That girl likes…theater,” Ronda said, making the word sound dirty. You laughed with your cousins, shaking your head at her. Ronda had the worst luck with women. Last year, one threatened to throw herself into traffic if Ronda didn’t come outside to talk to her.

You and your cousins merely stared at her through the screen door and dared her to do it. You didn’t really mean it, but the girl was dramatic as hell and too full of herself to actually go through with it.

“Dare I go check in on the Aunties?” You asked.

There was a resounding, “No!”, that seemed to echo even while outside. You laughed with your cousins. You were feeling restless, though. Anxious. You needed something but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

Maybe it was just the holiday. You took after your mother in the sense that you had a strong need to make sure everybody was okay. Everybody had all their toes and fingers accounted for, no bruises, no yelling, or fighting. If everybody else was okay, then all was right in the world with you.

But sometimes…you got a little impish. Like you wanted to cause trouble just to see what would happen. You wanted to disrupt the delicate balance of the house and festivities and do something wicked.

An idea immediately came to mind and you didn’t think twice about it. You said goodbye to your cousins, stepping back into the house to check on your dad. Lately, he had been feeling more winded than usual. More tired. You urged him to go to the doctor, but the relationship between men and hospitals needed to be studied. He avoided it like it was a nail in a coffin.

Terry sat next to your dad, yelling at the TV with him. He brought his beer to his lush lips and took a deep pull. Your core instantly heated looking at your man. There was precious little he did that didn’t absolutely turn you on.

He caught you staring and winked at you. You grinned and took out your phone, snapping a quick picture of him. He tilted his head, giving you a look. You stuck your tongue out at him and then checked the score. You found a free recliner opposite your dad and sat down, finally taking the load off.

While everyone was distracted, you quickly sent Terry a text. He checked his smart watch and then glanced at you, furrowing his eyebrows in an unspoken question. You smiled sweetly at him while he dug out his phone and checked your message.

💬 You sent a photo.

“Can Big Daddy come play?”

Terry immediately placed his phone down on his thigh, turning wide eyes towards you. You rocked in the recliner, grinning at him. You had sent a thirst trap to him, one you snapped in the bathroom earlier in the day. You had meant to show him at a later time, maybe while he was at work and needed a pick me up.

He scooted forward on the couch, leaning his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his beard and tried to suppress a grin, subtly shaking his head at you.

You continued to rock, feeling pleased as punch. You tried to see if he was getting hard but he was bent too much forward. The men groaned at the latest ref’s call and you turned to the TV to see the teams setting up for another play.

You glanced back at Terry who kept his eyes trained on you. When you caught his eye, he narrowed them slightly and then jerked his head towards the stairs. You grinned and got up first, heading up to the second floor that remained off limits to everybody. Less rooms to clean up afterwards.

The great thing about having a big family was that it was easy to disappear with no one the wiser. You headed upstairs to your childhood bedroom, closing the door behind you. The room was just as you left it in your early twenties when you finally moved out. There was still stuffed animals and an overflowing bookshelf in the corner, a wide dresser stretched underneath your TV, and “grown-up” art on the walls. You sometimes missed the B2K and B5 posters had tacked to your wall for years.

Anticipation churned in your stomach as you waited for Terry’s quiet footfalls to follow behind you on the shaggy, brown carpet. A moment later, there was a soft knock and then Terry entered, looking behind the door for you. You ushered him in and then closed and locked the door, wrapping your hands around his neck.

He had to bend down slightly so that it wasn’t incredibly awkward for you and he groaned. “You trynna get me killed?” He demanded, stepping back to look you in the face.

You giggled and clasped your hands behind your back. “Whatever do you mean?” You asked.

Terry smirked and advanced on you, causing you to bite your lip and retreat. He crossed the distance in one second, his long legs carrying him forward. He cupped your neck in both of his warm, strong hands and you moaned, eyes sinking lower now that you were back in his capable hands.

“You think you slick sendin’ that picture while I was right next to your dad?” He asked.

You giggled again. Ugh, you couldn’t help it. He made you feel so feminine and girly whenever he went all big and strong on you. You were working on being more bold, opening your mouth and asking for what you wanted. But sometimes, you got so twisted up with nerves your mouth didn’t work.

“Did you like it?” You asked.

Terry squeezed your neck and you sighed at the pressure. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. “You know I liked it,” he said, glancing down at the front of his pants. You followed his gaze and noticed his dick pressed against the fabric of his jeans. You reached out to rub his bulge.

He lifted an eyebrow at you. “What’s gotten into you?” He asked.

“I can’t just want my man?” You asked. You continued to rub him, watching as his own eyes drooped. His naturally dark eyelashes nearly fanned his high cheekbones.

“You know, there is one fantasy I always wanted to act out,” you said, forcing yourself to say the words. Even after years of marriage, Terry made you feel like a school girl with a crush. Guess you could never really shake that bit of shyness from growing up in a loud household and seeking only peace.

“Is that right,” he murmured.

“Mhmm. I never really got to have boys in my room growing up,” you said. You blinked up at him with a smile hovering over your lips. Terry lightly squeezed your neck, stepping closer, as you continued to rub him through his jeans. His breathing increased, soft pitfalls loud in your ear because he was so close to you.

“Am I the first boy in your room?” He asked.

“Maybe. But don’t get a big head about it,” you said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. His thumbs rubbed across your pulse points on both sides of your neck, turning you stupid in less than a second. You lost your train of thought as the rough slide of his fingers sent electric zings down to the tips of your toes. Your panties grew damp as you sighed.

You kept waiting for the honeymoon phase to be over, but after a while, you just accepted that you two were just that intense for each other. Growing up, you saw your grandparents, parents, and extended family all find the love of their lives, each carving out a special relationship with their significant others.

But it was Auntie Aileen’s marriage that you admired. Sometimes she and her husband seemed to communicate with just a look. Like they were the only two people in the world and everything else was background noise. You wanted and craved that. And by some miracle, you found that with Mr. Terry Richmond.

“And, there’s a few things that I always wanted to do with a boy in my room if I ever got the chance,” you said. Your hands slipped to his jeans, unbuttoning them and then sliding the zipper down.

“Mm, I think I like where this is going. You know, I had a similar fantasy,” he said. He smirked as you lowered his jeans enough to get to his boxer briefs. His dick was hot to the touch through the fabric, balls heavy, and you slipped your hand beneath the waistband to get to your prize.

“Is that so?” You asked, palming his dick. He hissed and then released the sigh in a shudder. You grinned, feeling like the most powerful person ever. Just you gripping him caused a reaction. It was heady and intoxicating and you would never get sick of it.

“Mhm. See, I always wanted to fuck my wife in her childhood home. Like it was a badge of honor or somethin’,” he said, his voice getting deeper and rougher.

You shivered. Your panties were practically soaked now. Your pussy throbbed at the thought of you both having similar fantasies. You stepped back from his hands around your neck and then dropped down your knees.

Terry’s eyebrows lifted as you grinned at him. You pressed your nose into his crotch and nuzzled. Terry sighed, petting your head as you tugged his briefs down to expose the long, thick length of him.

The tip of his dick swelled, pre-cum already beading. You swiped your tongue out and licked it causing Terry to jerk his hips forward. “As much as I love this, we better hurry before one of the Aunties come looking for you,” he said.

You pouted. He was right. A bunch of girls to choose from to handle anything around the house and somehow it always fell to you.

You sighed and kissed his dick, making it jump. “Don’t worry, buddy, I’ll make it up to you later,” you said.

Terry laughed and pleasure zinged through you. You loved pleasing your man. Whether it was making him laugh, checking in on him, or pleasing him during sex, you loved it when you could just make him feel good.

Terry helped guide his dick into your mouth and you looked up at him while you worked in tandem. He pushed in and you sunk onto his dick, wrapping your lips around him. His hairs tickled your face but you kept your mind focused on making him cum as quickly as possible.

Little did he know, you were in a competition with yourself to make him bust faster and faster. Maybe it was simply the competitive spirit in you. But you swore you’ve come from just a look from him. Turnabout was only fair play.

Light from your window illuminated Terry through the slats of the blinds. He tipped his head back, mouth falling open as you worked him over with your tongue and hands. You gripped his base, squeezing how he liked while you took the rest in your mouth.

“Fuuck, this mouth of yours,” he moaned. Your pussy throbbed harder, growing wet from the sounds of his moans, the look of pleasure on his face. His eyes were closed, hands around the back of your head to push your mouth further down.

You took him in and bobbed your head, really getting into pleasing him. You shifted on your knees and squeezed his dick harder. You moaned around his length, getting lost in the feeling of him throbbing in your mouth. His dick poked your cheek and you teased the tip with your tongue.

“Just like that,” he coached so you did it again. You teased the tip while you sucked him off, loud gawking echoing in your ears.

Saliva slipped from your mouth and drooped down your chin, letting him slip easier in and out. You increased your ministrations, bobbing in a frenzy, watching for any signs of his discomfort.

You saw none of that. Instead, his face was twisted in a sexy mix of pleasure and pain. Soft moans escaped his mouth as you kept going, kept trying to take him deeper, kept trying to swallow him whole.

“Fuckin’ perfect. So fuckin’ perfect with my dick in your mouth,” he cooed.

You moaned, growing unbearably wet at his words. Your jaw started to ache but you ignored it in favor of wanting to get him off. Wanting him to bust in your mouth. You widened your jaw and he sunk in a little deeper.

He groaned and looked down at you. “I’m finna bust,” he whispered.

You grinned around his dick and kept up what you were doing until he gripped your head and spilled down your throat. His moans were their own aphrodisiac, filling you with pride that you got your man off so quickly. You swallowed his cum, something you were still getting used to, and then continued to suck.

Terry huffed, hips jerking forward, as he couldn’t decide between laughing and moaning. He had to gently push at your head to make you stop and he eased his dick out. “You must think you’re cute,” he said.

You pinched your thumb and forefinger together. “A little,” you said.

Terry chuckled, grabbing your hands and helping you stand. He kissed you, gripping your face to his to make you stay. You sighed with a moan, wrapping your arms around him. You made out for a good, long while, soaking up each other’s desperate kisses.

“My turn,” he whispered against your lips.

You only had a brief moment to catch the devious, nearly evil look in his eye as he lifted your plain gray T-shirt over your head. He didn’t take it off, instead he just wanted the collar over your head to expose your black, lacy bra.

He groaned, getting a live view of the sexy picture you sent him earlier. He thumbed your nipples through the bra, making them bead up. He backed you towards your closet door, then dropped his head to suck on your nipples around your bra.

You moaned, gripping the back of his neck. “Oh fuck,” you moaned.

“Shhh. We ain’t trynna get caught ‘cause of your nasty ass,” he said.

“My nasty ass?” You asked with a giggle.

“Your nasty, sexy, delicious ass, yes,” Terry said in between licking and kissing your titties. He used his index finger in between the cups to lower it, exposing your nipples to his gaze. He tucked the cups of your bra beneath your titties and went back to sucking on them.

Each suckle sent a wave of heat through your body and if you weren’t careful, you’d turn into a raging inferno right there in your childhood bedroom. Your moans only increased, getting louder the more he worked that glorious, hot tongue on you.

You wished you had enough time to get your pussy licked on. But you were already pushing the envelope at the moment with so many people just downstairs. Risk of discovery only turned you on more, your pussy clenching around nothing.

Terry slipped his hand down your leggings and past your underwear, finding you soaked. He paused with your nipple in his mouth. “You got this wet from sucking me off?” He asked with his mouth full.

You nodded. “Sure did,” you said.

Terry closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Good to know,” he murmured.

You didn’t have time to ask him about that because he went back to sucking on your titties while he plunged two fingers into your pussy. You cried out, and he gave you a warning look, before working those long, thick fingers in and out of you.

“I-I didn’t suck you off to get something back,” you whispered. As much as you would like to turn this into a full on session, you were also cognizant of the time. Surely, someone would come looking soon, right? You weren’t exactly subtle heading upstairs.

“Think I’ma leave my favorite girl like this?” He asked. He emphasized his point by plunging his fingers faster, the squelching of your pussy smacked in the room.

“Oh, baby. Oh, Terry, please, I’m gonna…unnf,” you moaned as quietly as you were able.

“That’s okay, baby, you cum on these fingers. You cum all over this fingers f’me,” he murmured, still treating your titties like his favorite meal. He kissed, suckled, and nibbled until you turned into a puddle in his arms.

You were only held up by your hands around his neck and his arms around you. You shook violently, trapping his fingers between your thighs as you rode out your orgasm. Terry still managed to wiggle his fingers inside, rubbing against a sweet, sweet spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

Your nails dug into his soft sweater and you shivered on your way down from it. Terry kissed and rubbed his beard against your nipples. Was the man trying to kill you?

He leaned back and smiled at you. “I love the look you give me after you cum,” he said.

You giggled. “What look is that, sir?” You asked.

“Like a well-satiated woman. That’s always my goal,” he said.

You smiled and tilted your hand. “You better be careful talking to me like that. I might think you wanna marry me,” you said.

Terry chuckled. “Oh, I wanna do more than marry you,” he said. He grinned and then gripped the waistband of your leggings and panties. He slid the pants down your legs, his hand traveling behind to rub against your thighs.

You stared at each other, smiles hovering on your faces, as he got them down to your calves. You stepped out of them and Terry wasted no time picking you up. You yelped as he spread you wide open, hooking your thighs around his waist.

Holding his hand under your ass, he used his other one to guide his dick into your slick heat. Your eyes widened at the glorious, burning stretch as you sank down onto him. Your toes curled as he sank in deeper and deeper, your essence making the trip easy.

Terry maneuvered his arms under your knees, so that he could easily lift you up and down on his dick. You gripped onto him for dear life, turning wide, panicked eyes to him. You didn’t think he’d drop you, no, your husband was too strong and capable for that. You just felt like you were about to rip apart at the seams and he was the only thing keeping you together.

“You did say you wanted Big Daddy to come and play, right?” He whispered, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss was slow, smooth, and so damn hot you clenched around his dick. He groaned and lifted you off his dick just to sink back in.

“Don’t be using my words against me,” you said.

“Oh word?” He asked with a grin. All the niceties flew out of the window. He started slamming you up and down on his dick, that stretching burn making your eyes roll to the back of your head.

“Oh, fuck,” you moaned, bringing your face closer to his. You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck and held on while he fucked you, stuffed you, and filled you so completely you felt him all over. He was in your heart, your mind, and your soul, writing his name in the threads of your being.

“There’s my good girl. I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” he said.

You whined against his face, peppering him with sloppy kisses. “I love you,” you said.

“I love you, too. I like when you get bold. Let me know you want this dick,” he said. He rubbed his beard against your cheek and you moaned.

“I want it. Please, I want it,” you whispered.

Knocking drew your attention to your door. You turned wide eyes to Terry who stopped moving. He glanced towards the door.

“Baby, you in there?” Your mom called out. Your heart beat in double time, fear turning your insides icy.

“What should I do?” You whispered. Okay, you lied, getting caught would suck ass right now. There was no way to explain this to your mom. You just didn’t talk about these things with her. As far as she was concerned, you were married but still a virgin.

“If you don’t answer, she gonna send a search party,” he whispered back.

“Yeah, mom?” You called out.

“What are you doing in there? Food’s getting ready to be done so I need your help organizing the line,” she said.

“Yes, mommy, I-I wasn’t feeling well so I came to lay down,” you called out.

“Do you need some medicine? You want me to grab Terry?” She asked.

Terry grinned and started moving you up and down on his dick again. Your jaw dropped, tummy fluctuating between arousal and fear. The normal butterflies in your stomach were having a field day.

You slapped at his shoulder to get him to stop. Or quit fucking around. He couldn’t think this was a great idea, making you take his dick like this while talking to your mom. He grinned innocently, moving his lips down back to your nipples to suck.

You closed your eyes, not knowing where to focus your attention. “Uh-no! I’m okay! I’ll be out soon, promise!” Oh, fuck, he hit a good spot inside you and you clutched him to you.

“Alright, better come on. Your Uncle Remy ‘bout to work my damn nerves,” your mother sniffed as she presumably went on down the hallway.

You gasped and tapped Terry’s shoulder again. Terry answered you with a chuckle and then ended on a moan.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he moaned like it was a glorious revelation. His deep voice skated along your nerve endings, making your tummy flip with desire.

“Terry, please!” You moaned.

“Big Daddy ain’t finished yet,” he said and nuzzled your neck. He placed kisses there while he pumped his arms, moving you up and down on his dick. Your toes curled once more, fast approaching that train to nirvana.

“Oh, please, Big Daddy, I can’t take it,” you cried.

“Sure you can. Cum on this dick so I can fill you up. Let me feel it,” he said into your neck. His groans joined yours, hips jerking into you like he was close as well. “Soak this dick, baby.”

You dropped your head to his shoulder and let the orgasm roll over you like a subway train. You twitched and jerked on him, keening whines and cries filling your room as you lost sound in your right eye.

Or maybe this was that nirvana you were dreaming of. Maybe you slipped into another plane of existence where your souls danced and entwined for eternity. Either way, Terry’s groans brought you back to this side of existence while he stuffed you full of his cum.

The hot, thick spurts throbbed with his dick, sliding against your inner walls. You cried, feeling overwhelmed and thoroughly fucked out. You both panted and huffed as you came down, gathering your senses post-nut.

You smiled dopily at your man and he flashed you a beautiful, wide grin. “There’s that look I love so much,” he said.

“You are dangerous,” you said.

He chuckled. “Saying I’m dangerous while your pussy feel this good squeezing my dick. Just say you don’t wanna let go,” he said.

You squeezed his dick and he laughed, lowering you carefully to the floor. Once he slipped out, his cum came rushing out of you and you closed your eyes to enjoy the sensation. Terry suddenly pushed his cum right back in.

“Terry!” You screamed.

He chuckled. “I can’t help it. I like watching my cum slide out of you,” he said. He planted a kiss on your forehead and you smiled at him while you crossed the room to your dresser. Sometimes, you came to spend the night with your parents to help keep an eye on your dad while your mom got a break.

You grabbed an extra pair of panties and a towel from off of your bed. You cleaned yourself up as best as you were able and then slipped your leggings back on. Thank goodness that a bathroom was directly across from your room. You wouldn’t have to trek far to get fully cleaned up.

Terry stuffed that dangerous monster back into his jeans. You stood, transfixed, watching him slide the denim over his dick and zip up his pants with a little hop.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Big Daddy,” you said, admiring your man.

“Happy Thanksgiving, baby,” he said, pulling you into a hug and one final kiss before leaving your room in a cloud of marital bliss.

The end.

I love you all and I'm so thankful for you. The Secret Terry Richmond Files

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mrsfancyferrari · 2 days ago

Text

Want You

Summary: LN4 + "But I don't want them, I want you." 🥧🏈

Song: Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 10.8k

You stand in the mirror, pacing back and forth as you fix your hair for the third time. Tonight is one of those nights where the universe feels electrically charged, a perfect blend of thrill and anxiety swirling in your gut.

Layla, your best friend, has just finished getting ready and is practically beaming with excitement beside you.

Her skin glows under the soft lights of your apartment, and her dress hugs her figure perfectly. You can’t help but feel slightly overshadowed by her beauty.

"Do I look okay?" you ask, biting your lip, your eyes darting from her to your reflection.

"Are you kidding? You look amazing!" Layla exclaims, twisting a lock of her hair, her eyes sparkling. "But you really need to get out there more. You’re gorgeous in your own right!”

You chuckle, brushing off her compliment with a wave of your hand. "Yeah, well, even if I am, who's going to notice when you're around? You’re the one who gets all the attention. "

"That's not true! But anyway, tonight we’re supposed to have fun, not talk about that,” she says, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you lightly. “Now, remember the plan?”

You nod, though your heart feels heavier with those words. “Right. We’re meeting Lando and the guys at the club. I just hope he doesn’t think I’m some awkward third wheel. He’s popular.”

Layla rolls her eyes playfully. “You say that every time. You two are friends. Besides, I think he likes you more than you think.”

“Whatever you say,” you respond, your mind racing back to the day Lando had randomly entered your life during a charity event you were volunteering for.

He was charming, funny, and incredibly humble for someone so famous. But the thought of anything romantic blossoming between you seemed absurd, especially when Layla was practically the embodiment of what everyone desired.

At the club, the bass vibrates through the floor, and colorful lights dance around the crowd like fireflies in the night. It’s an atmosphere alive with energy, but you feel your heartbeat quicken at the thought of seeing Lando.

You spot him near the bar, a bright smile on his face as he talks to some friends. Dressed casually, Lando is effortlessly cool, like a magnetic pull that draws everyone’s attention.

“There he is!” Layla exclaims, her excitement infectious. You watch her eyes grow wide like a child spotting a shooting star.

“Go! Go talk to him!” you nudge her, unable to keep the urge to play matchmaker at bay.

“No way! I’m not going without my wingwoman,” she whispers urgently, grabbing your wrist.

With a resigned sigh, you stride forward, Layla trailing closely behind. The moment Lando sees you, his face lights up, and he waves enthusiastically.

The way his presence commands attention is almost intoxicating.

“Hey! You made it!” he greets, pulling you in for a quick hug. You can smell his cologne, fresh and invigorating. Suddenly, your shyness mellows into warmth, though a tiny inner voice reminds you that you’re about to play cupid.

“Of course! Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you reply, your demeanor suddenly a mix of confidence and nervous fluttering. “Lando, this is my best friend Layla. You should hang out with her more—she’s awesome!”

Layla’s cheeks flush, and a playful smirk spreads across her face, but you can’t help but feel anxiety gnawing at you.

“Nice to meet you, Layla,” Lando says, his bright green eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope!” Layla giggles, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers as if she wasn’t sure what to do with her hands.

“Yes, definitely,” he chuckles lightly, shooting you a glance that feels a bit mischievous. “I always wanted to meet the friend who keeps you so grounded.”

You fight to keep your composure, trying to bury the layer of jealousy creeping in. “Well, tonight’s all about celebrating. We should hit the dance floor!”

Hours pass with drinks flowing and laughter echoing. You dance, reveling in the rhythm while keeping a watchful, almost possessive gaze on Layla and Lando. They banter, and you notice how easily they connect, the chemistry undeniable.

A part of you feels satisfied, hoping for the sparks to ignite. Yet, another part steals glances at the way Lando laughs—could he truly like her?

“Hey,” you hear a familiar voice call, pulling you from your thoughts. Lando approaches, his brow slightly furrowed. “I was looking for you. Want to join us?”

You swallow, glancing at Layla, who is leaning against her car, her smile bright. “Um, sure. Just one moment.”

He watches you, a look of concern crossing his face. “Everything alright?”

You smiled, feeling a blush creep up your cheeks. “Yeah but you know, Layla really lights up the floor.”

“She does,” he nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “But I think you’re just as fun. It’s nice having both of you here.”

“Nice being here with you.” The words spilled from your mouth before you could bite them back.

Before you nerves could take over, you added, “You know, if you’re interested, Layla would love to get coffee or something. She’s crushing on you.”

A flicker of surprise crossed Lando’s face, followed by an understanding nod. “Yeah, I picked up on that. But honestly?” He paused, searching for your eyes. “I think I’d prefer hanging out with you instead."

Your breath hitched, and you felt a giddy thrill dance in your chest. “Really? You mean that?”

“Definitely,” he said, leaning forward with a grin. “You’re fun to talk to, and we have a great vibe. I really like spending time with you.”

“Wow, I… I wasn’t expecting that,” you stammered, a mixture of confusion and excitement swirling inside you. “I mean, Layla is great and all, but—”

“Look,” he interrupted gently, his eyes softening. “I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I’d love to get to know you better. Just you. No Layla.”

The morning sunlight peeked through the curtains, casting soft golden rays across the small living room where Lando and you sat. Your head ached, pounding in rhythm with your heartbeat, and the remnants of last night's festivities loomed over you like a heavy cloud.

Lando chuckled softly, shaking his head. “It wasn’t anything too wild, don’t worry. Just that you really like spending time with me… and that you might like me in a different way.”

Your face burned even hotter, a mix of embarrassment and panic flooding your senses. “Oh my god! Lando, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to… I don’t remember any of that! It’s embarrassing.”

“Hey, don’t stress,” he said, a warm smile crossing his lips. “It’s not like you announced it to the whole party or anything. Just me, your trusted partner in crime. Besides, it's actually kind of sweet.”

His words were laced with a sincerity that calmed the storm brewing inside you, just a little. “You really think so?”

“Definitely,” Lando nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I mean, how often do you get to hear someone’s true thoughts when they’re tipsy? It made my night a lot better.”

“Are you serious? I was a mess!” You tossed a pillow at him, your heart still racing from the earlier confession. “I can't believe I let that slip.”

“You were not a mess, you were just… liberated,” Lando smirked, leaning back on the couch and folding his arms behind his head. “And honestly, I don’t think it’s a bad thing. In fact, it kind of makes me happy.”

“Ugh, Lando, you’re just saying that to make me feel better,” you replied, your voice wavering as you tried to muster a hint of displeasure.

“No, I’m not.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I mean, how often do you get to hear someone’s true thoughts when they’re tipsy?”

“Are you serious? I was a mess!” You tossed a pillow at him, your heart still racing from the earlier confession. “I can't believe I let that slip.”

“No you weren't.” His face lit up with a smile that was infectious. “First things first, though—let’s get you over that hangover.”

You chuckled softly, grateful for the shift in energy. “Right.”

“Exactly,” Lando said, standing up and moving to the kitchen. “How do you feel about greasy food? Because I believe that’s the primary cure for hangovers.”

Your lips curved into a smile. “Always a solid choice. I could go for some toast or maybe even pancakes.”

“I can whip up something interesting,” he called back, a hint of mischief creeping into his voice. “But it might not be traditional breakfast food. I’ve been experimenting a little.”

“Oh boy, this should be good,” you said, following him into the kitchen, the earlier tension still lingering, but now more like a hopeful promise than a cloud of uncertainty.

Lando looked back over his shoulder with that charming grin that made your heart race. “Just trust me. You’ll love it.”

As he rummaged through the cabinets, you felt a flutter of excitement amid the remnants of your embarrassment. Maybe today wasn’t just about curing a hangover. Maybe it was the start of something new—something sweet and just a little bit wild.

The kitchen filled with the aroma of sizzling ingredients, laughter, and casual banter, the gravitational pull of your connection drawing you closer.

And for the first time that morning, as the sunlight spilled in and the soft music played, you felt truly, undeniably alive. . . .

The sun hung high in the sky, casting a golden hue over the McLaren paddock as the roar of engines filled the air. You had arrived earlier than expected, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension.

Lando had invited you specifically to watch him race, and you had decided to bring Layla with you, thinking it might make the day more enjoyable.

But now, as you watched the interactions unfold around you, you began to regret that decision.

“Look at them,” Layla said, nudging your arm and pointing toward the racing cars as they zipped around the track. “Isn’t it incredible? I still can’t believe we’re here!”

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper as you tried to suppress the tension knotting up your stomach.

Lando was on the other side of the paddock, surrounded by his team, engrossed in the pre-race hustle. He looked effortlessly cool in his race suit, flashing that signature smile that made your heart skip, and exchanging laughter with his crew.

You could see the admiration in Layla’s eyes, the way her gaze followed him, almost too fondly.

“Do you think he’ll win today?” Layla asked, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “I mean, he’s been so on form lately. This might be his season!”

“Yeah, I hope so,” you managed, but your heart sank a little at the way she spoke about him, as if Lando was already hers, as if you didn’t even exist in the context of their perfect relationship.

As the anticipation built, Lando finished up with his team and made his way over to you both. With a warm grin, he wrapped you in a tight hug, his comforting scent of fresh cedar and sunlight enveloping you.

“Hey, you made it!” he exclaimed, pulling back to look into your eyes. He waved cheerfully at Layla, who returned the gesture with a beaming smile.

With a playful tap on my shoulder, he kept his attention locked on you. “I bought your favorite snacks in case you get hungry. Just ask anyone in hospitality and they'll give them to you.”

“Oh, Lando, you didn’t have to,” you said, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“I knew you didn’t eat much,” he replied, with a hint of teasing in his tone. “Gotta keep you energized, right? What would the fans say if they saw you fainting in the stands?”

You chuckled, the lightheartedness of his comment managing to ease some of the tension in your chest. “I appreciate it, really. Thanks, Lando.”

“Of course!” He flashed that dazzling smile again, and your heart skipped yet again, wishing it wouldn’t betray you so. “Are you excited for the race?”

“Absolutely,” You said with a grin. “I can’t wait to see you speed past everyone. You’re going to crush it!”

Lando’s cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. “I’ll do my best. And if all goes to plan, maybe we can celebrate afterward?”

“Definitely!” you replied a little too quickly. “That would be amazing!”

As Lando left to get ready for the race and you walked to the garage, Layla nudged you playfully. “Haven't you seen the way he looks at you?” she said, a teasing smirk on her face.

“How do he… look at me?” you asked, a hint of confusion in your voice.

“Like he's helplessly falling in love,” Layla teased, her tone light but with a touch of sincerity.

Your cheeks heated. “Oh, come on. He’s just friendly. You know how he is.”

“Friendly? Girl, he’s practically glowing when he sees you! It’s more than friendly.”

You didn't reply but her words were replayed in your head for most of the day. . . .

The roar of the engines and the excitement of the crowd filled the air as you settled into your seat, your heart racing along with the cars on the track.

You had been eagerly watching Lando drive with impressive precision, your admiration mixed with nerves as he expertly navigated the twists and turns of the circuit.

But as the laps dwindled down, your stomach began to rumble louder than the cars. You leaned over to Layla, who was just as engrossed in the race aside from the occasional glance in your direction.

“I'm going to grab some snacks Lando got for me. Want anything?” you asked, trying to mask your growing hunger with a light-hearted tone.

“No, I’m good! Can’t believe you have personal snacks from the Lando,” Layla teased, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you made your way to the hospitality room, the bright lights and lavish decor a stark contrast to the rawness of the track.

You felt a rush of nostalgia thinking about all the times Lando had surprised you with silly little gestures, like snacking during breaks or rescuing you from long queues at events.

As you entered, the atmosphere abruptly shifted. A tall, undeniably handsome man leaned casually against the bar, a cocky smile on his face that could light up the room.

He had perfectly styled hair and a confidence that was palpable. You instinctively felt your pulse quicken, but not in the way you were used to with Lando.

“Hey there,” he drawled, his voice smooth like velvet as he turned to face you. “What’s a gorgeous girl like you doing all alone?”

You blinked, taken aback. It was the first time someone had openly flirted with you in public, and the realization made your cheeks flush.

“Um, just grabbing some snacks,” you stammered, glancing back toward the snack table. “Not much to see here.”

He moved closer, leaning forward on the bar, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, I’d hardly call you ‘not much to see.’ You definitely stand out from the crowd. What’s your name?”

“Uh, it’s…” you hesitated, almost forgetting your own name for a moment. “It’s Y/N. And you are…?”

“Ethan,” he replied, extending a hand with an air of confidence. You hesitated but eventually shook his hand. “So Y/N, do you come to the races often?”

“More often than you’d think,” you answered, forcing a smile.

Your mind kept drifting back to Lando, his curly hair bouncing with every turn, his infectious laugh, his enthusiastic spirit. You couldn't help but mentally compare every detail of Ethan to Lando, a habit you couldn’t shake off.

“What do you think of the race so far?” Ethan asked, diverting your thoughts back to the present.

“Oh, it’s exhilarating! Lando’s doing really well,” you replied, your voice faltering slightly as you mentioned his name. “He’s a great driver.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Lando? The Lando?”

“Yeah, we’ve known each other for a bit. He’s… well, great,” you added sheepishly, not wanting to divulge too much about your friendship.

“Sounds like you’re a bit smitten,” Ethan teased, his eyes sparkling with playful banter.

You cut him a look, a blush creeping up your neck. “No! It’s not like that. We’re just friends!” The resolve in your voice felt weak against the wistfulness laced in your words.

Would Ethan ever understand the depth of what Lando meant to you?

The race continued, and Ethan shifted his attention from the track to you. “While I might not have curly hair or that… infectious laugh, I can still try to impress you,” he said with a smirk.

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “I can’t deny you’re charming, Ethan. But the thing about Lando—”

“Is that he’s Lando,” Ethan interrupted, his voice low as though the name itself held some power. “I get it. You’ve got this history that I can’t compete with.”

He looked down, running a hand through his hair. The gesture seemed so reminiscent of Lando, yet distinctly different.

You couldn’t shake off how much every flick of Ethan’s hair and every smile he flashed felt in stark contrast to Lando’s bouncy curls and radiant grin. He smiled, sure, but it felt like a shadow of something brighter.

Just then, a staff member waved at Ethan from the other side of the grandstand, beckoning him over for photographs. “I’ll be right back!” he said, throwing you one last flirtatious grin before he slipped away.

You decided to take the chance to get back to your seat, curious as to why the cheers around the paddock were getting louder.

“Did you get your snacks?” Layla asked, her eyes still glued to the screen where the race was unfolding.

“Yeah,” you replied absentmindedly, still feeling the flutter of excitement from Ethan's attention. As you focused on the race, your thoughts danced back to him intermittently.

The atmosphere was electric; Lando was still in the lead for qualifying, much to the delight of the crowd, and your heart raced not just from the race—but from the momentary thrill of flirtation.

“Come on, come on, Lando!” Layla shouted, her enthusiasm infectious. You mirrored her excitement, your eyes following the sleek McLaren as it whizzed around the track.

When Lando crossed the finish line, securing pole position, the roar from the team was deafening. Everyone in McLaren was ecstatic, their cheers echoing the adrenaline that surged through the air.

"Yes, Lando," you said, smiling as the cameras captured the jubilant scene.

With Lando’s triumph, you watched as the team swarmed to congratulate him. You couldn't help but chuckle at his signature grin, the way he seemed to glow with the thrill of victory.

But as you looked closer, you realized that despite the chaos around him, Lando’s gaze was searching the crowd.

“Do you think he’ll spot us?” Layla asked, her eyes narrowing, trying to catch a glimpse through the throng of people.

“I doubt it. I mean, look at him! He’s the star of the show right now,” you replied, attempting to downplay the hope that fluttered in your stomach.

Still, your thoughts were interrupted as Layla suddenly grabbed your hand, pulling you through the crowd.

“C'mon! We need to get a closer look!” she shouted over the noise. Your heart raced for a different reason now, excitement growing as you maneuvered through the ocean of fans, team members, and media.

You just managed to catch a glimpse of Lando standing on his car, fist raised triumphantly in the air. “Look at him! He’s on top of the world!” you exclaimed, your voice barely audible over the cheers.

“I know! He’s incredible!” Layla responded, beaming at Lando’s joyous display.

Amidst the clamor and celebrations, you decided to yell out, “Lando, over here!” hoping he might hear you.

To your surprise, he turned in your direction, a radiant smile breaking across his face. He scanned the crowd, and for a heartbeat, your eyes locked. His smile grew broader, and you felt warmth flood your cheeks.

Then, without a thought for the crowd around you, you made your way over to him. You squeezed through a chaotic throng of jubilant fans, the buzz of celebration swirling around you, until you reached the area near the barriers.

There he was, laughing and exchanging high-fives with the team. You couldn't help but grin as you approached.

“Lando!” you shouted over the noise, arms open wide.

He spotted you immediately, and a look of pure joy washed over his face. With almost immediate instinct, he lunged toward you, wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace.

The strength of his excitement was palpable, and you squeezed him back, your heart racing.

He chuckled as he lifted you slightly off the ground. “I did it! I can't believe it!” he cried, setting you back down gently. “Did you see that last lap?”

“Are you kidding? It was amazing! You were so fast!” you exclaimed, your voice rising above the cacophony.

As he pulled back, he looked down at you with his bright eyes sparkling in the fading light. “I couldn’t have done it without all your support. You were here every step of the way.”

“You’ve worked so hard, Lando. You deserve this,” you said, your gaze drifting for a moment as you felt the warmth of his presence envelop you.

But then, staring at him with the backdrop of the ecstatic crowd, your heart felt odd. Being so close to him, you suddenly found yourself stammering. “I—uh, I mean… you really did great.”

Lando tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You alright?” He took a small step closer, his arm still around your waist, making you acutely aware of the physical closeness between you, which felt both comfortable and electric.

“Uh, yeah, totally fine,” you replied quickly, but your voice was barely above a whisper. You caught a brief glimpse of Lando's gaze flitting to your lips, and it sent a jolt of connection rushing through you.

“I just… I mean…” You struggled to finish your thought, the reality of your best friend stepping into the limelight making you feel both thrilled and ridiculously nervous.

“Just what?” he teased gently, his smile unwavering but those eyes—oh, those eyes were searching, digging deeper.

“Just… I didn’t think you’d get pole position! I mean, I thought maybe, like, third or fourth?” You laughed nervously, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey, you should always believe in me!” Lando said, but there was a soft intensity behind his words that made your heart race all the more. “If I can get here today, then you have to promise you’ll always believe in me, no matter what.”

You paused, looking earnestly into his bright eyes, biting your lip. “I promise. But you’ve gotta promise me too; no matter how famous you get or how many trophies you win, you won’t forget about me, okay?”

“Never,” he said softly, but the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine. He lowered his voice, his teasing demeanor fading slightly.

“You’ve been my constant through all of this, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Lando’s words lingered palpably in the air between you. You felt like the entire world had faded away, the crowd’s roars dimming into background noise. “I just… I could never replace what we have.”

“Exactly,” he said, moving a fraction closer, eliciting butterflies to flutter chaotic within your stomach. “Remember that time you thought I’d mess up in Monaco, and then I didn’t? I was convinced I could do it because you believed in me.”

You laughed, flushing at the memory. “Yeah, and you laughed at me for just being realistic.”

“Realistic is boring! You should know that by now. In racing, and in life, you gotta dream big,” he said, voice lightening as humor returned to the moment.

Just as you were about to respond, Zac approached. “Hey! Lando! Congrats, mate!”

He clapped Lando on the back, breaking the synergy you had created. “That was an incredible race! You crushed it!”

Lando’s hand left your waist as he turned to engage with Zac, his infectious excitement pulling him into the conversation. “Thanks, man! I can’t believe it! I was so nervous the entire time!”

You stepped back slightly, allowing the two of them to revel in the adrenaline of the moment. Lando beamed, his eyes sparkling as he spoke animatedly with Zac about the race strategy.

You watched as he made his way to get weighed and interviewed, your heart fluttering with a mix of pride and something else you weren’t quite ready to admit.

“Really, though, I don’t understand why you’re still on the fence about it,” Layla said, stepping beside you as you discreetly observed Lando.

Her voice was laced with curiosity as she nudged your shoulder. “He’s been so into you these past few weeks. Did you see how he looked at you when he saw you?”

You sighed, leaning back against the wall, your gaze still fixed on Lando. “Yeah, well, I saw that. But just because he looks at me a certain way doesn’t mean he likes me. He’s excited about the race, Layla. I’m just… there.”

“You’re not just ‘there.’ You’re practically glowing in his vicinity. It’s like he only sees you when he talks!” Layla insisted, her tone shifting to teasing. “You could light up an entire stadium with the way he smiles at you.”

“Okay, maybe he enjoys spending time with me,” you conceded, your cheeks warming at the thought. “But that doesn't exactly scream ‘I like you.’”

“Maybe not,” she replied, tilting her head as she watched Lando waving at fans and signing autographs, “but you’ve got to admit, there’s something more. I mean, look at him! The energy is off the charts!”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the conversation light. “You know how he is. He’s a charismatic guy. He’s like that with everyone.”

“Maybe. But wouldn’t it be amazing if he was like that with just you?” Layla’s voice softened, and she nudged you again. “Take the leap! Ask him how he feels—it doesn’t have to be a grand declaration.”

The sun was beginning to set over the racing circuit, casting hues of orange and pink across the sky as Lando settled himself into a high-backed chair in the paddock lounge.

It had been a day filled with adrenaline, the thrill of achieving pole position lighting up his thoughts.

The victory celebrations had been electrifying, but they were quickly overshadowed by a single purpose that surged through him like fuel to an engine—he wanted to see you again.

After the debrief, he had scanned the crowd, searching for you, his excitement building with each passing second. He had been talking about trying a new restaurant in town, and he couldn’t wait to explore it with you.

But the moment he stepped into the bustling lounge, he spotted you, and his heart sank just a little.

You were laughing.

Not just a polite chuckle, but a full-bodied laugh that lit up your face. You were engaged in conversation with Ethan Smith, the American actor who had been brought in as a special guest to support the race.

Lando could see the chemistry between you two—it was glaringly evident in the way Ethan leaned in slightly, his playful jokes coaxing out laughter and smiles that made your eyes sparkle.

“Hey, you look like you’re going to kill Ethan,” Layla, your best friend, teased as she sidled up to Lando, noticing the tense atmosphere that had suddenly enveloped him.

“Who?” Lando asked, tearing his gaze from you for just a moment.

“Ethan Smith? One of the most famous actors in the US? You don’t know him?” Layla's voice was filled with disbelief.

“Nope, and I don’t like him either,” Lando grumbled, eyes narrowing as he watched Ethan wink at you.

You giggled, and Lando felt a twinge of jealousy in his chest. He stood up properly, unable to resist the pull any longer.

As he stormed over, Layla rolled her eyes, giggling softly in amusement. “Good luck, hero.”

Lando approached, trying to keep his expression neutral even while he could feel a competitive spark igniting within him.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” he said, forcing a smile as he sidled up next to you, “but I thought we were going to check out that new place together.”

You turned to him, your smile blossoming even wider. “Lando! You were amazing out there today! I still can’t believe you got pole position!”

“Thanks! It was a good day, but I’ve got even better plans,” he added, shooting Ethan a pointed look. “I’m taking you out for dinner remember.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered and amused by Lando's sudden intrusion. “Oh, is that so? Looks like you’ve got some competition, Norris.”

Lando’s jaw twitched slightly. “I don’t see any competition, honestly. You’re just a—”

“Just a what?” Ethan interrupted with a smirk, leaning back casually. “Just a huge star who happens to be having a lovely conversation with someone he finds incredibly charming?”

You giggled again, a sound that made Lando’s irritation simmer down just a fraction. “You guys, come on. I’m just trying to enjoy the evening here.”

“Exactly,” said Ethan, flashing you a disarming smile. “And you deserve it! Besides, I was just giving her some advice on how to handle the media.”

“Media?” Lando questioned, crossing his arms. “I didn’t realize you were running a media workshop.”

Ethan shrugged, unbothered. “Hey, just sharing the wisdom I’ve gained. It can be tough, huh? Like staying out of the limelight while everyone’s watching you, waiting for you to slip up.” He shot a harmless smile, but Lando felt the jabs in his stomach.

You frowned, sensing the tension. “You guys, let’s not make this into a competition. Lando, you were the one who wanted to go out tonight.”

Lando looked at you, and then back at Ethan. “Right,” he said, softening his tone as he fixed his eyes solely on you. “I just wanted to celebrate with you a little, that’s all.”

Ethan grinned, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright! Looks like you’ve claimed your prize, my friend. I was just enjoying the company. I’ll step back.”

Lando glanced at Ethan with a nod, appreciating the concession, but still feeling a little victorious as he turned back to you. “So, are you ready to go eat? That new place is supposed to be amazing.”

You looked back to Ethan, and then nodded, a sweet smile curling on your lips. “Yeah, I’m ready. Sorry for taking up your time, Ethan.”

Ethan waved it off with a playful wink. “No problem! Have fun out there, you two. Just remember, she was laughing with me first!”

As you and Lando began to walk away, he turned back to you with a raised eyebrow. “You know, just for the record, I think he was flirting with you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh please, he’s just a friendly guy! Besides, I already have someone I’m interested in.”

“Good,” Lando muttered, feeling a rush of relief and warmth flooding his chest. “Just making sure.”

He smiled down at you, his heart feeling a little lighter now. “Let’s go enjoy our dinner and make some headlines of our own, huh?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, linking your arm through his as you both made your way out, leaving the tension behind you.

Lando couldn’t help but smile at the thought of spending the evening with you, feeling that maybe the only competition that truly mattered was the one he could embrace.

The evening air was cooler than expected, igniting a small thrill of anticipation as you stepped out of the car. You looked up at the restaurant’s glowing sign, your heart fluttering a little.

This place was newly opened, a fusion of modern and vintage charm, and you were eager to see if it lived up to its reputation.

As you adjusted your jacket, you glanced at Lando, who was standing beside you with an easy grin, his eyes sparkling like the city lights around you. Ever since he came into your life, each moment felt a little more vibrant, a little more alive.

“Have you seen the menu?” you asked, looking up at him, excitement bubbling in your voice.

He nodded, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “I did, and I can tell you right now, I’m going for that pumpkin risotto. It sounds incredible.”

You laughed. “Pumpkin risotto? It seems a bit heavy for someone who just came off a race, doesn’t it?”

“Hey, I need my carbs!” he retorted playfully, nudging your shoulder with his. “Especially after that race last week. I burned more calories than I could count, you know.”

“Fine, but I’m holding you to it. If you fall asleep in the middle of dinner, we might have a problem,” you teased back, stepping inside the restaurant.

The atmosphere enveloped you like a warm embrace—soft lighting, a hint of herbs wafting from the kitchen, and laughter echoing from nearby tables. You felt a buzz of excitement in your veins as you and Lando were led to a cozy corner table.

“So, what are you going to have?” he asked, picking up the menu and scanning it with genuine interest.

You shrugged, pretending to gauge the choices with utmost seriousness. “I think I’ll try the seafood linguine. It’s been ages since I’ve had good pasta.”

Lando’s expression softened, and he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. “You know, I love when you get excited about food. It’s one of those little things that makes you… well, you.”

A warm blush crept onto your cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were so observant, Mr. Norris.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “I notice the important things. Like how you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, or how your eyes light up when you talk about your favorite books.”

“Okay, now you’re just getting mushy.” Your voice barely hid your embarrassment, but the fluttering in your chest was unmistakable.

You loved how easily he could make you smile.

Their server arrived, and you both ordered. As you waited, the conversation flowed easily, moving from playful banter about Lando’s racing experiences to sharing your dream travel destinations.

“I really want to visit Japan,” you said, your eyes dancing with the thought. “The culture, the food, the cherry blossoms… it seems magical.”

Lando leaned back, an amused smile plastered on his face. “You’re a romantic at heart, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you admitted, biting your lip. “What about you? Where would you go if you had the chance?”

He paused, his expression thoughtful. “Probably somewhere quiet. Racing is intense, so I think I’d like a peaceful beach. Just to sit, reflect, and maybe learn to surf.”

“Surfing, huh?” You quirked an eyebrow. “You? I can already picture you wiping out spectacularly.”

“Oh, I’d definitely faceplant! But I’d get back up,” he said, his laughter infectious. “Just like on the track. That’s what makes it all fun, right?”

Before you could respond, your food arrived, and the divine aroma filled the air. You both dove into the dishes eagerly, enjoying the burst of flavors that danced on your tongues.

“This is amazing!” you exclaimed, savoring a mouthful of your linguine. “You have to try this.”

Lando took a bite of your pasta and nodded approvingly. “Wow, that’s really good! But I’ll stick to my risotto for now.”

As dinner continued, the conversation turned more personal. Lando shared stories of his childhood, his dreams, and the pressures of being in the limelight, while you opened up about your own aspirations and the challenges you faced.

“Sometimes, it’s overwhelming,” he confessed, a hint of vulnerability lacing his words. “I mean, I love racing, but it can feel like everyone’s expectations are just weighing down on you.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand on his. “But you’re doing something incredible, Lando. You’re following your passion and inspiring people along the way. Just don’t lose sight of what matters.”

His gaze locked onto yours, lips curving into a smile that reached his eyes. “You always know what to say to make me feel better. I’m lucky to have you around.”

In that moment, you understood something deeper was blossoming between you—a connection that transcended the thrill of racing. It was a shared dream, a mutual understanding, and an undeniable chemistry that lit up the evening.

As the night wore on and the plates were cleared, you felt a mix of contentment and longing. The restaurant buzzed with laughter and conversations, but in your little corner, it was just you and Lando, caught in your own world.

“Next time, we should pick somewhere even more adventurous,” he suggested, a playful gleam in his eyes.

You leaned back, thinking of the possibilities. “That sounds perfect. Let’s make it a tradition.”

Lando grinned, and in that moment, you knew this was just the beginning of something beautiful. You just hope that your feelings won't get in the way. . . .

Layla’s coughs echoed through the empty hall as she wrapped herself tighter in a soft blanket on the couch, trying to drown out the sound of the outside world.

It felt bitterly unfair that her body had rebelled against her just when she’d been looking forward to watching the race with you.

“Hey, Layla,” you called from the kitchen, where you were prepping a few snacks. “I’m heading out now. Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

She turned her head slightly, her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed. “No, really, you should go. I’d just be a downer. Besides, I’d hate to get Lando sick. He’s got that race this weekend!”

“True, but…” you hesitated, feeling the weight of the unspoken words. “I mean, it would have been nice if we could all hang out together. I was kind of hoping you'd be there.”

Layla's smile was faint but brightened her pallid complexion. “I think you’re hoping for more than just ‘hanging out.’ You like him, don’t you?”

You sighed. “Maybe? I mean, after last night’s dinner… I just can’t tell if it was all in my head.”

A soft laugh escaped her lips, quickly followed by a cough. “You actually thought he was, what? Just being polite? You guys were practically flirting all night.”

“Flirting? Really?” You raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “I thought he was just being friendly. Charming, even. He’s always like that.”

“Yeah, but that look he gave you? Come on! It was like, 'how do I impress you?’ and 'you’re amazing’ wrapped in one.” She coughed again, and you felt guilt worming its way into your chest.

“Maybe he was just being a nice guy. Or he was bored...” you trailed off, unsure.

“Or maybe he’s into you, and you just don’t want to see it,” she countered, her voice softening. “You should go talk to him. Tonight could be your chance!”

You ran a hand through your hair, pondering Layla's words. What if? What if that spark you felt between you was mutual?

You took a deep breath as you nodded. “Okay. I’m going. Just to check in on him.”

“Good! Now go knock his socks off!” Layla replied, her enthusiasm cutting through her congestion. As you waved goodbye, a quiet mix of excitement and apprehension simmered in your stomach.

You arrived at the paddock, the unmistakable hum of excitement buzzing in the air. The energy of fans waving flags and donning their favorite team colors could be felt all around; it was palpable and infectious.

You took a moment to soak it all in, engaging with the fans milling about, sharing smiles and snapshots that captured the thrill of race day.

But amidst the joviality, you couldn't shake off the knot in your stomach. Lando had been acting differently lately, receiving an outpouring of negative comments and disproportionate criticism on social media.

It made your heart ache to see someone so talented being torn down and misunderstood, especially when he had always been so kind and considerate.

Today was supposed to be about racing, but you had a growing worry that Lando might not be able to shake off the weight that was pressing down on him.

Once you greeted the last group of fans, you made your way through the paddock with purpose. The noise faded slightly as you approached Lando's garage—his sanctuary, where he would armor up for the battles on the track.

The energy there was different; it was practically electric, the team buzzing around, making final adjustments to the car and going over the last-minute strategies.

Still, your focus was solely on Lando.

You searched for him in every nook and cranny, peeking into the bustling pit area and checking around the hospitality suites. But a feeling of dread began to take root when you couldn’t find him.

“Maybe he’s in his driver’s room,” you murmured to yourself, trying to push down the worry that lingered like a shadow.

At the door, you hesitated, your heart racing. You knocked once, then twice, listening for the sound of his voice.

When no response came, you slowly turned the handle and pushed the door open, half-expecting him to be absorbed in some last-minute race preparation. Instead, the scene that greeted you was far from it.

Lando was curled up on the small, worn sofa, hands wrapped around his knees. He jumped slightly at the sight of you, his eyes wide, a mix of surprise and vulnerability.

“Oh Y/N, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, forcing on a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You frowned at the sight of him, the dim light casting shadows across his face, revealing red-rimmed eyes. Your heart sank. “Lando… what’s wrong?”

You lowered yourself onto the sofa next to him, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a comforting embrace, but it did little to ease your concern.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, the practiced lightness in his voice clashing with the heaviness in the room.

You could see the slight tremor in his hands, and your worry deepened. You reached out, tentatively placing a hand on his knee.

“You’re not fine,” you said softly, searching his face for the usual spark you loved. “I can see it. Talk to me?”

He looked away, glancing out the window at the racetrack where the cars were roaring around the circuit.

You followed his gaze but quickly turned back to him, determined to break through the wall he had put up. “Does it have to do with the race? Is it the pressure?”

Lando shook his head, something between sad and grateful passing over his features. “It’s not that. Just… a lot on my mind, you know?” His words were heavy, like anchors sinking in deep water.

“That’s okay,” you said, shifting closer to him. “I’m here. You don’t have to go through it alone.”

He chuckled softly, though there was no humor behind it. “You’re always here, Y/N. That’s what I like about you. You make it easier.”

“Then let me help you,” you insisted gently, nudging him with your elbow while you tried to coax out a more genuine response.

“Can I get a hug?” you asked, knowing that physical closeness might be the best way to pull Lando out of the shell he’d crawled into.

He hesitated, eyes darting around the room like a deer caught in headlights. Then, hesitantly, he leaned into you, wrapping his arms around your shoulders.

The warmth of his body was comforting, but as he buried his face against the curve of your neck, you felt the tell-tale signs of him holding back. You hugged him tighter, hoping he could feel the strength of your support.

“Let it out,” you whispered, holding him as he exhaled deeply, searching for words that seemed stuck in his throat. “Please.”

You rubbed his back in soothing circles, the silent rhythm cocooning you both in a bubble of softness. You didn't care if you were basically sitting on his lap; all you cared about was Lando.

“It's just... a lot,” he murmured finally, his voice muffled against you. “The media, the fans—they're relentless. I don’t think I can do it today.”

“Shhh…” you soothed, leaning back slightly to bring his gaze toward you. His big, dark eyes looked lost, a storm brewing behind them. “You’re stronger than they think. You love racing, remember? You belong out there.”

He looked away, swallowing hard. You could see the emotions swirling within him, battling between fear and desire, doubt and determination. “But what if I mess up again? What if…”

“Lando,” you interrupted gently. “What if you do great? You can’t let fear write your story for you. You have to give yourself a chance.”

His fingers found your waist as he held you closer, the intensity in his grip conveying everything words could not. “I just don’t want to let anyone down,” he confessed finally, his breath warm against your ear.

“You won’t,” you assured him, your heart racing with the intimacy of the moment. “Not with me by your side. You have me, Lando; I believe in you.”

With every squeezed breath, the hug felt too tight, arms closing around you, squeezing you, pressing together, inch by inch. You could feel his hesitance melting into something else, something deeper, something that felt like your very own electricity.

Lando was the unpredictable force that set your heart aflame. Those arms wrapped tightly around you felt intoxicating, like a drug that sent your pulse racing when the rest of the world faded away.

His phone buzzed, jolting you both back to the reality of the upcoming race.

“It’s Oscar,” he muttered, annoyance tugging at his features. “I don’t want to go; I can’t face the pit or the cameras.”

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze fully. “Well, I can’t do this for you, but I can be right there with you. You need to let them see how you feel. It’s okay to show vulnerability, Lando.”

He took a deep breath, and you could see the gears in his mind turning. “What if it’s not enough?” he muttered, but the fire in his voice was finally wavering.

“Enough for who?” you pressed. “You don’t have to perform for them. Just do your race, and I’ll be right there cheering for you.”

“Really?” He looked at you, the hope flickering in his gaze almost enough to make you lean in and kiss him.

“Absolutely. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” You grinned, feeling the air shift between you, filled with the promise of something more.

Suddenly, Oscar’s voice boomed from the other side of the door, urgent and loud. “Lando, it’s time for the race!”

Lando groaned, clearly annoyed at being forced back into reality. “I guess I can’t hide in here forever, huh?”

“Nope. Now come on, let’s get you out there and show them what you’re made of.” You smiled, standing abruptly and holding out your hand to him.

He hesitated for a heartbeat before taking it, and you felt that warm pull between you. The brief moment of intimacy melded into something more solid as he clasped your fingers. He rose to his feet, tilting his head slightly to find your gaze once again.

“Thanks,” he said softly, his voice clear and stronger now. “For everything. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Probably get a lot more nervous,” you teased lightly, nudging him playfully. “But seriously, let’s go. You’ve got a race to win.”

As Lando Norris crossed the finish line for the fourth time that season, the entire track erupted in a symphony of cheers and celebrations.

You could barely contain your excitement, adrenaline surging through you as you pulled off your headphones, the sounds of the race still echoing in your mind.

All that mattered was Lando—your brilliant, talented Lando.

You joined the staff, a vibrant mix of engineers, mechanics, and strategists, who were all equally charged up. The atmosphere was electric, the air thick with the scent of burnt rubber and victory champagne.

You barely noticed the chaos unfolding around you as everyone rallied around the pit area. The crew, those unwavering supporters who had helped you get closer to Lando before, ushered you closer, their enthusiasm infectious.

“Come on! Right this way!” one of the crew members shouted over the noise, grabbing your hand and leading you through the throng.

You felt your heart race as the crowd’s energy swirled around you, anticipation making you giddy.

“Lando! Lando! Over here!” you shouted, waving your arms above your head like a lunatic.

A couple of crew members pointed in your direction, assisting the chaotic dance of the crowd.

And then it happened. His eyes met yours—green and bright like emeralds sparkling in sunlight. Time seemed to slow as he brightened at the sight, a genuine smile breaking across his face.

Without hesitation, he tore away from the crowd, sprinting toward you. The world blurred around you, the cheers fading until nothing mattered but the two of you.

When he reached you, it was like everything else faded away. He enveloped you in the biggest hug, his head tucked tightly against your neck.

Warmth washed over you, and you couldn’t help but laugh with pure joy.

“You did it! I knew you could!” you shouted, the excitement lacing your words as your arms wrapped around his neck.

His grip tightened as he pulled back to look into your eyes, the sexual tension thick between you. Lando's gaze lingered on your lips momentarily, and something about the way he held his gaze left your heart racing.

“I couldn’t have done it without you cheering me on,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re my good luck charm.”

“I think it’s the other way around,” you teased playfully. “You’ve got the talent, but I like to think I add a bit of magic.”

Lando chuckled, a sound like music that echoed around you, making your heart flutter. “Well, keep that magic close then, okay?”

Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek, just a breath away from your lips. Your breath hitched as the world fell away again, your cheeks flushed with warmth and perhaps a bit more than embarrassment.

“I—I should let you go celebrate with everyone,” you said, almost feeling shy as you took a step back, the rest of the team rallying around him with congratulations.

“Hey,” he said softly, his gaze never wavering as he reached for your hand, holding it tightly. “You’re coming with me, right? We have to celebrate together after!”

You blinked, surprised. “Really? Don't you want to celebrate with only your team?”

“I want to celebrate with you too!” He smiled, an infectious grin that made your heart skip a beat. “We’ll carve out our own little celebration. Just us after.”

Your heart soared. You nodded eagerly. “Okay!”

After the podium celebrations ended, the crowd dispersed, and the atmosphere filled with the crackling excitement of victory turned to an afterglow.

Lando Norris, with his signature grin and a trophy held high, had basked in the limelight, soaking up the roaring applause of the fans.

But that was only a moment for him; now, he was dragged away to the media center, leaving you standing at the edge of the pit lane, heart fluttering with the kiss he had planted on your cheek moments before.

You leaned against the pit wall, watching as he disappeared behind a barrage of cameras and reporters.

The warmth of his fleeting affection lingered on your skin, and a smile crept across your face despite the noise around you.

“Thinking about him, I see,” a voice interrupted your thoughts. You jumped slightly, caught off guard as you turned to see Ethan approaching.

He wore a knowing smirk, one that made your stomach twist of embarrassment.

“Oh, hi Ethan, what are you talking about?” You feigned nonchalance, crossing your arms.

“Lando, I’m talking about Lando,” Ethan replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Look, it’s clear you’ve got this enormous crush on him, but let’s not kid ourselves. He doesn’t like you like that. He’s just being friendly.”

Your heartbeat quickened for a different reason now—a mix of frustration and hurt. “What do you mean he doesn’t like me? He just won a race, and he kissed me, it was sweet.” You tried to sound more confident than you felt.

“Sweet?” Ethan scoffed. “That was just a celebratory peck. You know how he is with his fans. He flirts with everyone. It doesn’t mean he has a thing for you.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing back against his doubt. “But it felt different. The way he looked at me before he left… Ethan, we’ve talked, we’ve laughed.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Look, you’re a great person, and I get that you want to believe he’s into you. But do you really think he’s capable of liking someone with all of this fame and pressure around him? He’s got a busy life, and girlfriends are just more trouble in that world.”

The frustration bubbled in your chest. “You sound like my mom,” you shot back, unable to hide the sharpness in your tone. “You don’t even know him like I do.”

“Fair enough,” Ethan said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “But you’ve got to admit, you’re setting yourself up for a huge disappointment here. Just... don’t get your hopes too high. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

His exasperation was genuine, but it only deepened your resolve. “And I wouldn’t want to live my life scared to try because of what ‘might’ happen.”

Ethan sighed. “Okay, I’m not trying to ruin your fantasy. I just want you to be realistic.”

“Realistic or pessimistic?” you countered.

He laughed softly, the tension in the air easing just a bit. “Alright, let’s call it realistic, then.”

“Lando doesn’t like you that way,” Ethan had said, concern etched on his features.

Those words replayed in your head like a broken record, setting a tight knot in your stomach every time you thought of the charming driver.

Just as you attempted to shake off the lingering doubt, a staff member materialized out of thin air, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “Lando wants to see you now.”

“Thanks!” you called out, excusing yourself from Ethan’s company.

You felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety as you navigated through the hubbub of the garage, pushing aside doubts that had lingered since your morning conversation with Ethan.

Finally standing before Lando’s driver’s room, you raised your hand and knocked gently. “Come in,” his voice called out, warm and inviting.

You opened the door to find Lando leaning against the wall, a genuine smile lighting his face, so different from the frown of earlier that day. “Hi, champ!” you greeted him, a spark of joy igniting within you.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, standing upright as he approached you. “I’m really glad you’re here.” His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and you could feel an electric tension crackling in the air between you.

You both settled into a rhythm of lighthearted conversation, laughing and reminiscing about the week’s events, but underneath every playful jab and shared joke, there was an unspoken acknowledgment of the chemistry that simmered between you.

Lando’s gaze felt heavy on you, filled with unexpressed words that lingered just beyond reach.

The air crackles with an unspoken tension as you stare into Lando's eyes, a mix of confusion and yearning coursing through every nerve in your body.

You can feel the warmth of his presence enveloping you, a fire igniting in the pit of your stomach as you try to decipher the myriad emotions swirling between you.

“So,” Lando began, his voice almost a whisper, eyes glistening with something serious, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

His voice quivers with uncertainty, the weight of his unexpressed feelings hanging heavily in the atmosphere, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

Your mind raced back to Ethan’s words: “Lando doesn’t like you, Y/N. He’s just playing around.” You shook your head slightly. You wouldn’t let yourself believe that.

You couldn’t allow the confusion between friendship and something more to blur in your mind; it was too painful.

He said, his tone firm yet tender. “I like you, Y/N.”

“You don’t, you can’t,” you protest meekly, recalling the stinging words Ethan had casually tossed your way, words that left a lingering ache in your chest.

The notion that Lando might not harbor genuine feelings for you feels like a betrayal, an unwelcome specter haunting the edges of this beautiful moment.

“Y/N—” His voice was earnest, but you shook your head, biting your lip to keep the tears at bay.

“Please don’t joke about that. If you don’t like me—if you’re just messing around—then don’t joke about it.” Each word felt like a dagger, piercing through the bubble of hope forming in your chest.

“Why do you think I’m saying this?” he asked, his voice low and laced with emotion. “Why would I bother if I didn’t mean it? This isn’t just some casual fling for me. I care about you, and it’s driving me insane keeping it all bottled up!”

You took a step back, your back hitting the closed door. “Lando, please, you can’t say that!” Tears began to stream down your cheeks unbidden.

“Why not?” he challenged softly, moving closer again, his gaze intense. “Why can’t I? Are you really going to deny what’s been between us? You feel it too right?”

The truth in his words shattered your defenses. “Lando, I—” Your voice broke, and the words tumbled out, heavier than you imagined.

“I’ve never been someone’s first choice before. It’s hard to believe that you actually want me.”

“Then believe me,” he urged, his hand gently cupping your cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb.

Lando’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you close as he whispered, “You deserve to hear it, and I mean every word.”

You melted into him, your head resting against his chest while he held you tightly—firmly yet gently, a safe haven amidst your unraveling emotions.

He didn’t flinch as the tears soaked his shirt.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, sniffling against his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose this.”

“You won’t lose me. Not ever,” he promised, pulling back slightly so he could look into your eyes. “Just give us a chance. I won’t hurt you.”

After a long while, you managed to calm down, your heart still racing but your breaths a little steadier. Lando pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes; the concern etched on his face warmed you.

“Can I kiss you?” Lando asked, his voice laced with just a hint of uncertainty, as if he feared this moment would evaporate into thin air.

Time seemed to stand still as you considered his question. You could feel the heat radiating between you, a magnetic pull that drew you closer.

This was the moment you had both been dancing around, the very reason for the tension that crackled in the air.

You felt a flutter in your stomach at the question, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. “Yes,” you finally breathed out, the single word filled with yearning.

His eyes sparkled, and he leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t; if anything, your heart raced as he brushed his lips against yours, soft and hesitant at first.

His lips met yours in a soft, tender kiss that spoke volumes of the feelings you both had kept hidden for too long. The world around you faded away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in a warm embrace, filled with the promise of love and acceptance.

As the kiss deepened, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief and joy. It was as if everything you had fought against—the doubt, the fear—melted away, replaced with the certainty of Lando’s affection.

You knew, right then and there, that you had finally found someone who would stay, who truly wanted you for who you were.

When the kiss finally broke, you rested your forehead against his, your hearts still racing from the intensity of it all. “I’m sorry I pushed you away,” you murmured.

“Don’t be,” he replied softly. “I’m just glad I finally got to you.”

And in that moment, surrounded by a haze of newfound love and vulnerability, you both knew that this was only the beginning of something beautiful.

Something that you both deserved. . . . .

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 days ago

Text

It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)

Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader

Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.

word count: 6.7k

main masterlist ▪︎ teaser

Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.

The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.

He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.

"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.

This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.

What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.

Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.

He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.

Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.

But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.

Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"

Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."

But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"

Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"

Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"

"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."

"Ewan, just—"

"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"

Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."

"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.

He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.

Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.

You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.

"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.

You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.

But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.

Then it comes. That fucking sound.

The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.

"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.

Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.

He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.

But that's not quite it.

He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.

He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.

It's maddening.

Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.

That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.

In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.

And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.

But you don't know him.

You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?

You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.

Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.

The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.

The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.

You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.

"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"

"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."

"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."

"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.

"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"

"Which guy?"

"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."

Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"

It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."

"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."

You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"

Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"

"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.

She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"

"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."

"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."

"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.

The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.

By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.

That's when you notice him again.

He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.

You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.

"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"

Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.

He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.

You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.

"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.

You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."

He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."

"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"

He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."

You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."

The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.

Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.

And so the game begins.

The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.

"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.

He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."

"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.

You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.

He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."

"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."

There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"

What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."

Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"

"Or this moment."

His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?

But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"

You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"

"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.

"Oh, it's working," you say softly.

Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."

You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."

He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"

There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.

There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.

You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"

"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."

"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."

Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"

"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."

"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.

"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."

"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.

"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."

Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"

"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.

"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.

"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."

Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."

You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"

The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."

"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.

He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"

"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"

His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."

"And I'd say yes... go on."

"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."

"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.

"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"

"Then... we could grab dinner or—"

"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.

"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.

"But would you want to?"

His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."

Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.

"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"

Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"

"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.

"What do you take me for?"

"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."

"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.

Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.

"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"

"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.

"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."

It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"

"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."

"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"

"I... I don't—"

"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.

Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.

You let out a low hum. "I know."

"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.

"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.

The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.

The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.

The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.

"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."

"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.

"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.

"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."

He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."

"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."

"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.

"Been told I have a big head," you joke.

He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."

Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"

"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.

For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.

Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?

You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.

As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.

"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.

Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.

The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.

You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.

But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.

And it only intensifies your desire for him.

There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.

Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.

"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.

"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.

He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.

"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."

So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.

He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.

He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.

His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.

The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.

Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.

"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.

"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.

"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.

"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"

Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.

"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.

"Aghhh, hey!"

"Shit, I'm sorry—"

"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."

"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."

You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.

"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.

You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.

When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.

Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.

"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.

"Because I like what I see," you reply.

"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.

"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."

He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."

The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.

"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."

Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?

He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.

"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.

You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.

Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.

Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.

"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.

Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.

"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."

You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."

The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.

"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.

His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.

"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."

You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.

"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."

"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.

He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.

You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.

"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."

Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.

His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.

His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.

Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.

The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.

Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.

It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.

He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.

He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.

"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.

"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.

"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"

His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"

"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"

Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"

"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."

"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"

"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."

Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"

But he already knows the answer.

His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”

Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.

"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."

"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."

"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."

When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."

He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.

Something came out of all that mingling after all.

taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear

#do me no good #ewan mitchell imagine #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell x reader #ewan mitchell smut #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd

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rootedinrevisions · 2 days ago

Text

What's Mine

SUMMARY: After months of secretly seeing each other, you and Tyler find yourselves caught between professional boundaries and personal desires. When a flirtatious rival pushes Tyler's jealousy to the surface, he claims you in a way that leaves no doubt about your relationship status-to you or anyone else.

A/N: sorry that these requests are taking so long! I appreciate everyone's patience as I try to juggle writing with Thank you to the person who sent the request for this one in. This one came from the prompt “I’m not the jealous type, but what’s mine is mine.” I've had this one mostly done for a while (like a week or so) but the scene at the end just wasn't coming together the way I wanted it to. But I think I'm finally happy with the final result. Hope you like it! xx

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI. Cursing (I assume, I'm not positive though). Smut (P in V, Unprotected)

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell: Himself (RPF), Characters He's Played

Twisters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Scott, Javi

Top Gun: Maverick: Rooster, Hangman, Bob

Marvel/MCU: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

WWE/Wrestling: Cody Rhodes, Corey Graves, Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn Balor, Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Kevin Owens, L.A. Knight, Pat McAfee, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins (if there is someone you're thinking of from WWE and they aren't on the list feel free to ask! There are so many guys on the roster that these were the ones that came to mind.)

The bar was alive with energy, the hum of conversation and laughter mixing with the low strains of a country tune from the jukebox. Boone, Dani, Dexter, and Lily were engrossed in a heated pool game, their competitive banter rising above the noise. You and Tyler had claimed a small table near the edge of the room, tucked away just enough to let you watch the chaos unfold.

Tyler sat back in his chair, nursing a Budweiser. His long fingers tapped idly against the glass bottle, his eyes scanning the room with the kind of quiet intensity he always carried. You were close enough to feel his presence, that steady, grounding calm he exuded without even trying. But far enough apart to not draw suspicion from the rest of the team.

Your drink was nearly gone, and you stood, brushing your hand lightly over his shoulder. “I’m getting another. You want one?”

He glanced up at you, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, darlin’.”

You nodded and made your way toward the bar. It was busy, and a line was forming as people crowded to get the bartender’s attention. You leaned against the counter, letting out a soft sigh as you waited.

“Hell of a storm today, huh?”

The voice came from your right, smooth and friendly. You turned to find a man standing beside you, his elbow resting on the bar. He was tall, with a confident grin and a storm-chaser logo stitched onto his jacket—a rival team.

“Yeah,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but neutral. “Definitely one to remember.”

“Bet you’ve got some good footage from it,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in slightly. “You’re with Owens’ team, right?”

You nodded, not bothering to hide the pride in your voice. “That’s right.”

“Lucky guy,” he said, his gaze lingering just a little too long. “I mean, you guys have a solid team. And... well, looks like you’re not just good at chasing storms.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile tight. “Appreciate the compliment.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught movement—Tyler. He was still at the table, but his body language had shifted. His posture was no longer relaxed; he sat forward slightly, his fingers wrapped tightly around the neck of his beer bottle. His sharp green eyes were locked on you, his expression unreadable but intense.

The man at the bar didn’t seem to notice. He continued, his voice low and smooth. “If you ever get tired of running with Owens, maybe you should give our team a shot. We’ve always got room for someone like you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Thanks but I’ll pass. I’m pretty happy where I am.”

The man didn’t back off, his grin turning slightly smug. “Well, if you ever change your mind—or just feel like grabbing a drink sometime—”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” you cut him off firmly, turning back to the bar as the bartender handed you your drink.

You glanced over your shoulder toward Tyler. He was still watching, his jaw tight, the muscle ticking in his cheek. His eyes flicked briefly to the man beside you before returning to yours. There was no mistaking the tension radiating from him.

You gave the man a polite nod before stepping away, leaving him at the bar as you made your way back to Tyler.

As you approached, Tyler’s gaze never left you. He set his beer down, his fingers drumming once against the table before he stood.

“Everything good?” he asked, his voice casual, but there was an edge to it—a quiet undertone that only you would catch.

“Fine,” you replied with a small smile, though you couldn’t resist teasing him just a little. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged, his expression neutral, but his eyes gave him away. “No reason.”

You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim of the glass. His attention briefly flicked past you, toward the bar where the man still lingered. Tyler’s jaw tightened again, and he looked back at you, his gaze steady.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. “You sure? Because you look like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Tyler didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leaned in. “Let’s dance,” he said, his voice low and firm.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Dance?”

“Yeah,” he said, already guiding you toward the dance floor. His hand stayed on your back, the contact warm and steady as he maneuvered you through the crowd.

The dance floor was dimly lit, strings of lights crisscrossing overhead and casting a warm glow over the couples swaying to the music. The song was slow and soft, a welcome contrast to the energy of the bar. Tyler stopped just at the edge of the dance floor, turning to face you.

“Here?” you asked, feigning nonchalance even as your heart gave a little leap at the intent in his eyes.

“Here,” he confirmed, sliding his hands to your waist.

He pulled you closer, the motion smooth and confident, and suddenly the crowded bar felt a lot smaller. You placed your hands on his shoulders, your fingers brushing against the soft, worn fabric of his flannel. The scent of him—faint cologne, beer, and the outdoors—wrapped around you, grounding you in the moment.

The two of you moved together, the rhythm of the song dictating the slow, deliberate steps. Tyler’s grip on your waist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against the hem of your shirt where it met your skin. His other hand rested lightly on your back, keeping you pressed against him.

But there was something in the way he held you tonight—something different. His movements were just a little firmer, his grip a little more possessive. You felt it in the tension radiating from him, in the way his eyes stayed locked on yours.

“You’re tense,” you teased, tilting your head to study him.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice a little too even, his expression unreadable.

Your lips quirked into a small smile. “You sure? Because you’ve been glaring at the bar like it owes you money.”

That earned a soft huff of laughter from him, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, his gaze flicked past you, just for a moment. Curious, you glanced over your shoulder and spotted the storm chaser from earlier still lingering at the bar, his eyes darting toward you and Tyler on the dance floor. When you turned back to Tyler, his jaw was tight again, his green eyes darker than usual.

“Oh my God,” you said, the realization dawning. A grin spread across your face. “You’re jealous.”

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “No, I’m not.”

“You so are,” you teased, leaning in just a little closer. “You’ve been staring him down ever since I got back.”

Tyler’s hand on your waist slid a fraction higher, pulling you tighter against him. His voice dropped, low and rough. “I’m not the jealous type,” he said, his eyes locking on yours, “but what’s mine is mine. And I didn’t like how he was looking at what’s mine.”

Your breath caught at the intensity in his tone, but you weren’t about to let him off the hook so easily. “What’s yours?” you asked, your voice light but laced with challenge. "Not sure I know what you mean."

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your back, his other hand combing up and his thumb brushing along your jawline. The touch was intimate, deliberate. “You know exactly what I mean,” he murmured, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You smiled, though your heart was pounding. “Do I? Because last I checked, there’s no label on this... whatever this is. We’re just keeping things casual, remember?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement breaking through his tension. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“Am I?” you countered, tilting your head as if to test him. “Because I’m thinking maybe I’ll let him buy me my next drink. He seemed nice. Even offered to let me ride with him if I want.”

Tyler’s grip on you tightened, his jaw clenching visibly. “You better watch that mouth of yours,” he warned, his voice low and steady, “before it gets you into trouble.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. Leaning in closer, you let your hand rest on his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel. The touch was casual enough to appear innocent, but the way his eyes darkened told you he didn’t take it that way.

“What kind of trouble?” you asked softly, your voice teasing but edged with genuine curiosity.

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small, almost dangerous smile. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “If you keep running that little mouth of yours,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “I’m gonna take you against the nearest surface I can find. And trust me, darlin’, I’ll make sure everyone—including him—knows exactly who you belong to. So unless you want us both taking a ride for indecent exposure tonight, I'd suggest you knock it off.”

A shiver ran down your spine, his words leaving you momentarily speechless. Before you could recover, the song shifted, transitioning into a faster tempo. Tyler pulled back, the satisfied glint in his eyes unmistakable as he saw the look on your face.

He grinned, spinning you out in a smooth twirl under his arm before pulling you back against him. His confidence was infuriatingly attractive, and you couldn’t help but smile despite yourself.

And then, without warning, he dipped you low, his hand steady at your back as he leaned in and kissed you. The kiss was firm and unapologetic, a silent claim that left no room for doubt to anyone looking.

When he pulled back, his hand still cradling your back, you blinked up at him, your breath uneven. His gaze softened slightly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

“So,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less firm. “Are you done being a brat, or do I need to make things even more official?”

You laughed softly, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck. “I don’t know,” you teased, still catching your breath. “I kind of like seeing you jealous.”

Tyler’s hand stayed firmly on your back as he guided you off the dance floor, weaving through the clusters of people. You were still reeling from the kiss—your lips tingling, your heart racing. His confidence had left you breathless, but there was also something grounding about his presence, his solid grip on you as though letting go wasn’t an option.

As you reached your table at the edge of the bar, Tyler pulled you into a quieter corner where the music softened to background noise. His hand lingered on your waist, his thumb brushing idly over your hip as if staking his claim.

“Subtle,” you teased, leaning against the wall. “You think that was enough for him to get the message?”

Tyler’s lips twitched into a small smirk, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “Don't care. I wasn’t doing it for him,” he said, his tone low and deliberate.

For a moment, you forgot the noise of the bar, the crowd, and even the guy who had been flirting with you earlier. All you could focus on was Tyler—his steady gaze, the way his hand still rested on your hip, and the unspoken promise in the way he stood so close to you.

“So, what was that all about then?” you asked, tilting your head, your voice softer now.

Tyler leaned in slightly, his free hand bracing against the wall beside your head. The proximity was intoxicating, his warmth seeping into your skin.

“I told you,” he murmured. “What’s mine is mine. I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart did a little flip at his words, but you weren’t ready to let him off the hook just yet. “But we're still not official, though,” you pointed out, your tone teasing.

Tyler exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

“Not when I want something,” you shot back, your eyes glinting with challenge.

Tyler pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand resting on the side of your face as he caressed your jaw. “You want official? Fine,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk, but his eyes held something more—something tender.

Tyler leaned in, his forehead brushing yours as he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Call me whatever you want—boyfriend, lover, or just Tyler—but as long as you call me yours, that’s all I care about.” His thumb traced the line of your lips, and the weight of his words settled around you like a promise.

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, fierce and tender all at once. He kissed you slowly, his mouth lingering over yours, as if sealing the words he’d just spoken with a kiss that spoke louder than anything else. His hand cradled your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes.

Tyler’s lips pulled away from yours, but his forehead stayed pressed against yours as he looked into your eyes, that mischievous spark returning to his gaze. He traced his thumb gently over your cheek, as though savoring the moment.

“So,” he said, a teasing smirk curling at the corner of his mouth, “was that official enough for you, or are you gonna make me actually say it?”

You tilted your head, matching his grin, letting your fingers lightly graze the back of his neck as you gave him a playful challenge. “I think I kind of want to hear you say it,” you teased, your voice soft but laced with amusement.

Tyler sighed dramatically, his eyes rolling with mock exasperation, but it was clear he was enjoying this little moment just as much as you were. He leaned back slightly, a chuckle escaping him as he gave you a mock-serious look.

“Darlin’,” he began, his voice dripping with affection and a touch of humor. “Will you please be my girlfriend?”

You burst into laughter, the sound light and carefree, as Tyler grinned at you, clearly pleased with himself. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer as his lips quirked upward.

“See?” he teased, his hands sliding down to rest on your hips. “I sounded ridiculous, didn't I?”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of the moment settle in. "I don't know...I kind of liked it,” you replied, a hint of sweetness in your voice. “Thank you. I know you probably think it was stupid, but it was nice to hear.”

Tyler leaned in, brushing his lips over your forehead in a soft, affectionate kiss. “Darlin', I'll do whatever makes you happy. If that means saying it, then I'm happy to do it,” he murmured, his arms wrapping around you as he pulled you closer again.

Your chest tightened at the honesty in his tone, and for a moment, all the teasing and banter fell away. This was real—so much more real than you’d expected it to be when the two of you started this quiet, undefined thing.

The moment hung between you, charged and intimate, until the sound of laughter from your team broke the spell. You glanced over Tyler’s shoulder to see Dani and Boone watching you from the pool table, their expressions ranging from amused to downright smug.

“Looks like the cat’s out of the bag,” you said, your lips quirking into a small smile.

Tyler turned to follow your gaze, his hand dropping back to your waist. “Good,” he said simply. Then, louder, so the rest of the team could hear, he added, “Yeah, we’re together. Anyone got a problem with that?”

The table erupted into laughter and a chorus of good-natured teasing, but no one seemed surprised. Dani shot you a knowing look, and Boone raised his beer in a mock toast.

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly as you turned back to Tyler. “You're as subtle as a freight train,” you teased.

He grinned, leaning down to brush a kiss against your temple. “You love it,” he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

And he was right—you did.

As the night eased into a comfortable rhythm, the initial teasing about you and Tyler began to fade—well, mostly. The team had always been a tight-knit group, and now that the two of you were officially “out,” it seemed like fair game for them to poke fun.

Dani was the first to pounce, sidling up to your table after winning yet another round of pool. She leaned her cue against the wall and smirked. “So, is this why you always rode shotgun with Tyler on every drive?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.

Boone joined in, raising his beer. “Oh, I get it now. ‘I’ll navigate.’ ‘I’m the best with maps.’ Sure, that’s why,” he said, making exaggerated air quotes.

Your face burned, but you couldn’t help laughing. “I am good with maps,” you said defensively, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Dexter, usually the quiet one, chimed in with a rare grin. “Guess that explains all the ‘extra stops’ you two needed on those long drives. Thought it was weird how often you needed coffee breaks.”

You groaned, hiding your face behind your hands. “Oh my god, you guys are impossible.”

Tyler, on the other hand, was taking it all in stride. He leaned back in his chair, his arm draped casually around your shoulders, the very picture of smug confidence. “Jealousy’s a bad look on y’all,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk.

Dani rolled her eyes. “Please. We’re not jealous. Just annoyed it took you this long to admit what we all already knew.”

Boone nodded in agreement. “Seriously, the way you two looked at each other—like a damn Nicholas Sparks movie. We were just waiting for the dramatic kiss in the rain.”

Tyler grinned, his fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “What can I say? I like to keep things interesting.”

You shot him a look, though you couldn’t hide your own smile. “Interesting is one word for it,” you muttered, leaning into his side despite yourself.

As the team’s attention shifted back to their game, you stole a moment to glance up at Tyler. His green eyes met yours, and for a second, the noise of the bar faded away. He gave you a small, almost private smile, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

When it was finally time to call it a night, the group began gathering their things. Dani slung her bag over her shoulder and paused by the door, looking back at the two of you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Hey, lovebirds,” she called out, her voice carrying over the music. “Try to keep it down tonight, okay? Some of us would like to actually get some sleep for once.”

Your cheeks went bright red as the rest of the team burst into laughter. “Dani!” you protested, your voice high with embarrassment as you hid your face in Tyler’s shoulder.

Tyler, however, was completely unfazed. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. He tightened his arm around you, giving the group a lazy grin. “No promises,” he said, his tone teasing but dripping with that cocky charm you both loved and hated.

The laughter grew louder as you groaned again, playfully smacking his chest. With his arm still wrapped around you, Tyler guided you out of the bar, his hand resting securely on your hip as you stepped into the cool night air. The laughter and teasing from your teammates still echoed in your ears, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

“Think they’ll ever let us live this down?” you asked, glancing up at him.

Tyler chuckled, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. “Not a chance,” he said, pulling you closer. “But as long as I’ve got you, I don’t really care.”

You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder as the two of you walked toward his truck.

The drive back to the motel was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional murmur of a country station playing on the radio. Tyler had one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on your knee, his thumb idly brushing over the fabric of your jeans. Every so often, he’d glance over at you, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like he couldn’t help himself.

But your mind was racing, and as much as you wanted to let yourself get lost in the warmth of his touch, you couldn’t shake the doubt creeping in. Was what happened back at the bar real, or was it just Tyler getting caught up in the moment?

When you pulled into the motel parking lot, the tension was still simmering beneath your skin. Tyler parked the truck, turned off the engine, and hopped out, coming around to open your door like he always did. You followed him up the stairs to your room, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you turned to face him. “So…” you started, your voice careful, testing the waters.

Tyler paused, halfway through pulling his flannel shirt off. He tilted his head at you, a playful smirk teasing his lips. “So?” he repeated, his tone light.

You crossed your arms, shifting on your feet. “What happened back there… at the bar,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “Was that real? Or are you gonna wake up tomorrow and tell the team it was all some big joke? Just you messing around for some laughs?”

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, you regretted saying anything. But then Tyler stepped closer, his flannel discarded on the back of a chair, leaving him in just his plain white t-shirt that clung to his frame in all the right ways.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, his voice steady, “do I look like I’m joking to you?”

You glanced up at him, searching his face for any hint of hesitation. But all you saw was certainty.

“I meant every word I said tonight,” Tyler continued, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you a step closer. “You’re mine. And I don’t care who knows it.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his voice. “But… you said we needed to keep things low-key,” you reminded him, though your voice wavered.

“That was before,” he said simply, his thumb brushing along your side. “Before I realized how much I hated watchin’ someone else try to take what’s mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a thrill down your spine, but it was the tenderness in his eyes that made you melt.

“Tyler…” you whispered, but whatever you were going to say next was lost as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It started slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the moment. But as you kissed him back, threading your fingers through his hair, it deepened, his grip on your waist tightening as if he couldn’t get close enough.

Tyler walked you backward until your legs hit the edge of the bed. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your hips, the curve of your jaw—each touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. When he finally pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his forehead resting against yours.

“Does that feel like I’m jokin’?” he murmured, his voice rough and low.

You shook your head, your fingers still tangled in his hair. “No,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his.

He grinned, that familiar cocky charm flashing through for just a second. “Good,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again.

The kiss deepened as Tyler pressed you back onto the bed, his hands trailing down your sides with a possessiveness that sent shivers through you. His touch wasn’t rushed—no, Tyler Owens was deliberate, savoring every moment as though he had all the time in the world to prove his point.

When he pulled back, his lips were swollen, his hair slightly mussed from your fingers. The sight of him like this—raw, unguarded—made your heart race. He sat back on his knees, his hands moving to the hem of your shirt. He tugged it up and then peeled it up over your head, tossing it aside carelessly. His hands roamed your bare skin, his touch warm and grounding, but his eyes were what made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice roughened by desire. His thumb traced along the edge of your bra, just barely brushing your skin. “All mine.”

His words sent heat coursing through you, and you couldn’t help but arch into his touch. Tyler leaned down, his lips brushing the column of your throat.

“Every inch of you,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “belongs to me.”

He kissed his way down, his lips teasing, his hands skillfully finding the clasp of your bra and unhooking it with ease. As he slid the straps from your shoulders, his gaze was reverent, almost awed.

“My girl,” he said, his voice low. His hands moved to your waist again, hooking into the band of your jeans.

As the cool air hit your skin, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sound that threatened to escape. Tyler noticed immediately, his sharp gaze flicking up to meet yours. His head tilted slightly, and his lips curled into a smirk that sent a wave of both heat and embarrassment through you.

“None of that,” he said, his voice firm but teasing. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, coaxing it free from your teeth. “They all know now, sweetheart. No need to hide.”

Your eyes widened, and you gave him a look that was part incredulous, part exasperated. “Tyler, we can’t …what if we get a noise complaint!”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich as his hands slid down to rest on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, maddening circles.

“I don’t care about a noise complaint,” he said, leaning down until his lips were barely an inch from yours. “The team knows. Hell, everyone at the bar knows. But now…” His smirk widened, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “Now it’s time every chaser in this motel knows who you belong to.”

“Tyler,” you started, but before you could get another word out, his mouth was on yours again, silencing your protest. His kiss was commanding, his hands sliding over your body in a way that left no room for doubt about his intentions. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blazing with something primal.

“Now,” he said, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your flushed skin. “Who do you belong to?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but before you could, he shifted, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear. His tongue flicked against your skin, and the combination of his touch and his words sent a bolt of pleasure straight through you.

“Tyler,” you moaned, his name spilling from your lips before you could stop yourself.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, that infuriatingly smug smirk firmly in place. “That’s right, baby,” he said, his voice like a low growl. “Say it again.”

You glared at him, your face heating with both embarrassment and arousal, but the challenge in his eyes only spurred you on. “You,” you said breathlessly, your voice trembling with need. “I belong to you.”

His grin softened slightly, turning into something warmer, something that made your chest ache. He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips, and when he pulled back, his hand slid to the small of your back, holding you close.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, and the possessiveness in his voice was tempered by an unmistakable tenderness.

As he kissed you again, deeper this time, your earlier doubts and insecurities melted away. Tyler wasn’t just claiming you—he was showing you, in every touch and every word, that he meant it.

Tyler’s hands moved over your body with a slow reverence, his touch igniting sparks wherever his fingertips lingered. The playful smirk that had been on his face earlier softened into something else—something deeper. His eyes locked on yours, his gaze steady and intense as if he wanted to commit every detail of this moment to memory.

He finished undressing you as he slid your panties agonizingly slow down your legs, letting them fall away as his hands brushed your hips. The air felt charged like you were both standing on the edge of something bigger than either of you could name.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice husky but carrying a weight of sincerity that made your chest tighten.

Your hand found its way to his face, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw. “Tyler…” you whispered, but you couldn’t find the words to finish. The look in his eyes—unwavering and full of something unspoken—was undoing you.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, and then the tip of your nose. Each kiss felt like a promise, slow and deliberate. His hands framed your face as he kissed you fully again, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that took your breath away.

He shifted, guiding your body beneath his as he shed the last of his clothing, his movements unhurried but purposeful. The heat of his skin against yours was electric, but it was the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered—that had your heart pounding.

Tyler paused for a moment, his weight braced above you, his forehead resting against yours. His hand brushed a strand of hair away from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“I need you to know,” he said, his voice low but steady. “This isn’t just…” He hesitated, searching for the right words. “This isn’t just about wanting to fuck you. It’s more than that.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the raw vulnerability in them wrapping around you like a protective cocoon. You reached up, your hand tangling in his hair as you pulled him down into a kiss, your lips conveying everything you couldn’t put into words.

When he finally started to push inside you, the moment felt like time had stopped. His movements were slow, measured, as if he were afraid of rushing it. This wasn’t like the other times you’d been with Tyler before. Every time before had felt like it was just physical. Practically ripping clothes off of each other and hot and heated kisses him getting inside of you as fast as he could.

But this time…this time his touches were just a little softer. His kisses were just a little deeper. And the way he was holding you, like he was cherishing you made you swoon.

As he moved with you, his hands roamed your body. He murmured your name like a prayer, each syllable dripping with affection. And when your hand gripped his shoulder, your nails digging slightly into his skin, he leaned down to kiss you again, his lips lingering as if he couldn’t bear to pull away.

You couldn’t stop the small sounds that escaped your lips, your body responding to his in ways that felt like second nature. But it wasn’t just physical—there was something so much deeper in the way he held you, the way his hand laced with yours, fingers intertwining as though he needed to feel connected to every part of you.

It wasn’t long before the tension building between you both crested, your body trembling in his arms as your climax washed over you. Tyler held you close, whispering soothing words in your ear. When he followed moments later, his face buried in the crook of your neck, the quiet groan that escaped his lips sent another shiver down your spine.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing the only sound in the room. Tyler finally shifted, rolling to his side but pulling you with him so that you stayed nestled against his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as though letting go was not an option.

He pressed a kiss to your hair, his lips lingering there as he murmured, “I meant it, you know. You’re mine.”

You looked up at him, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “And you’re mine,” you said softly, the words feeling like a vow.

His lips curved into a soft smile, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your back. “Damn right, I am.”

As you lay there, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the weight of the moment settled over you. This wasn’t just another night, another stolen moment of passion. This was the start of something new—something real.

And as Tyler held you close, his breathing evening out as sleep began to claim him, you couldn’t help but think that for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly as it should.

#Tyler Owens #Tyler Owens x reader #Tyler Owens x you #Tyler Owens Fic #Tyler Owens Fanfic #Tyler Owens Fanfiction #Tyler Owens Smut

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ultraericthered · 9 hours ago

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#i got to screen Wish before it released during a school trip and let me tell you something #even though we noticed the glaring problems with that movie immediately #i also noticed something i dont think many others did at that time #there was so much talent and potential being held back. if you read closely you can pick up on a cry for help from the creatives behind it #i want to elaborate but i think if you know. you know #and if you don't.. this post does a good job of shining a light on a small part of that cry for you #despite its many issues i think i still liked Wish. Not because i think it was a good movie but bc i think it could have been a great one had circumstances been different. #my heart goes out to those who put their souls and everything they had into that movie and others in similar situations #some of the creators had given a small talk before the screening and to me they seemed very emotional about it #i think what many people forget is that nobody can see a project's flaws better than the people who worked on it #but what they also see and you can't is everything more it was meant to be #please remember that the core of many issues in any project is that the people with the talent often do not have power to call the shots

Yes, all of that. And I find it ironic that the gifed scene is the one that got people saying "Hey, King Magnifico's not really much of a villain, he's got a good point! He's just upholding his part of a social contract with his citizenry and doing what he, as king, needs to do to protect their wishes but also protect Rosas by ruling out granting any wishes that might backfire and have dangerous repercussions for the kingdom and the lives of the people! Asha's just an ignorant spoiled brat for demanding anything more of him! Magnifico Did Nothing Wrong!" So when you take that position on what you're being shown by the story and not scratching the surface to look at what Magnifico is doing in-universe by not giving back the wishes he knows he will not grant and knows the people who gave them to him cannot remember and what the out-of-universe subtext of this is, you're siding with the Disney Corporate Executive Overlords. You're siding with Bob Iger's "they're not being realistic with their expectations" argument. You're siding with Chapek and Iger's practices done under excuses like "It doesn't fit the Disney brand", "mass appeal stories over personal ones", "people don't want to go and pay to see movies with girly princess titles", etc. You're siding with their practices of dumping content straight to streaming (or onto Disney+ not too long after they've hit theaters or TV) even when that actually limits profits that the actual creative teams can make from their own work, of tampering with the artists visions and how the finished product turns out and then punishing those artists if it doesn't turn out well, and of ignoring ideas for original creations in favor of contiunally milking their popular (and profitable) existing IPs. You're siding with people who make up an entire entity that say loudly to the faces of all those who put in the work, the skills, the talent, the passion and dedication to create art and content they feel people deserve to enjoy, in the forms they deserve to enjoy them "I decide what everyone deserves!"

Capitalism errodes into a force for human evil when the people at the top prove susceptible to three things in excess beyond mere greed and self-interest: unchecked power, irresponsibility, and indecency. King Magnifico is allegorical for that evil, with a bit of a communist dictator angle to him too since that's the end point of those exact same excesses and extremes for socialism. He's a major problematic fave for all kinds of reasons, but anyone who wants to tell me he's a good guy can kindly GTFO.

Wish (2023) dir. Fawn Veerasunthorn, Chris Buck

hey do you think the overworked creatives about to go on strike are trying to tell us something

article sources under the cut

Mattson, Kelcie. "How Disney Almost Killed 'Nimona.'" Collider, January 2 2024.

Earl, William. "Shelving Batgirl Was the Right Decision, Says New DC Studios Head Peter Safran: 'It Would Have Hurt DC.'" Variety, January 31 2023

Couch, Aaron. "Warner Bros. Reverses Course on 'Coyote vs. Acme' After Filmmakers Rebel." The Hollywood Reporter, November 13 2023.

Ridgely, Charlie. "Scoob! Sequel Director Revealed Film Was 'Very Close' to Completion Before HBO Max Cancellation." comicbook.com, August 2 2022.

Clark, Travis. "Staffers at the animation studio Blue Sky say it's 'heartbreaking' that Disney canceled its final movie, 'Nimona.'" Business Insider, February 18, 2021.

Harrison, Mark. "Why was the Batgirl movie cancelled?" Yahoo! Entertainment, January 31 2024.

Amidi, Amid. "Warner Bros. Shelves Fully-Completed 'Coyote Vs. Acme' For Tax Write-Off." Cartoon Brew, November 9 2023.

Lee, Alex. "Why Netflix keeps cancelling your favourite shows after two seasons." Wired UK, September 28 2020.

Tyrrell, Gary. "We All Knew It Was Coming." fleen.com, February 10 2021.

"Warner Bros. Reverses Course on ‘Coyote vs. Acme’ After Filmmakers Rebel." see: 3.

Bergeson, Samantha. "Warner Bros. Will Let 'Coyote Vs. Acme' Filmmakers Shop Movie to Other Distributors." IndieWire, November 13 2023.

Strapagiel, Lauren. "Disney's First Feature Animated Movie With Queer Leads May Never Be Released." BuzzfeedNews, February 24 2021.

"We All Knew It Was Coming." see: 9

@/scottderrickson. "I think it’s absolute bullshit that a studio can and does shelve the creative work of hundreds of people for a fucking tax break." Twitter, 10 Nov. 2023, 4:52 p.m..

#Disney #Wish #disney villains #King Magnifico #analysis #opinion #criticism #anti disney #anti capitalism #anti communism

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emphistic · 1 day ago

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𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐄𝐑 ♱

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. preacher’s daughter x atheist trope, historical AU - 1930s, conflict of religion, childhood friends to lovers, making out in the back of an empty church, forbidden love, eventual smut [MDNI], fem!Reader, lovesick!Sukuna, outdoor sêx, loss of vírginity, fíngering, overstímulatiön, örgasm denial, degrâdation kink, choking kink

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. 15.4k

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. hated every second of writing this. but, whatever, another historical au has been written ☑ anywho, here it is, and here you are, angel @antizenin // read on ao3, dividers by @/saradika

“She looked like a religious icon, like somebody you’d sacrifice yourself for.”

You remember the day you met him like yesterday—well, how could you not? He stood out like a sinner in a church full of preachers.

The first time you saw him was at a funeral, but, don’t start feeling bad, the funeral was for some old lady living down the street whom you hardly knew. He sat in the farthest pew to the left in the front corner, and, with his height, you could’ve mistaken him for someone who had already reached puberty, but, nay, he was only a year your senior.

Even with the canorous singing of the choir in the background, and the words of your father droning on in the distance, the only thing you could seemingly focus on was the color pink. His hair, the boy’s hair—it was pink!

You had noticed the boy’s unnatural hair color while you were walking down the aisle for the Eucharist, and you happened to catch notice of him from your peripheral vision. Now, if you were just a little bit less behaved, you would’ve made a dash for it right then and there, and went over to inspect the boy’s hair, but no, your father had taught you better than most children your age, and you waited until the end of Service before you made an attempt at befriending the boy.

Mass had dragged on for what felt like longer than usual, and you hoped, with great enthusiasm, that if you waited outside the doors of the church for the boy to appear, you would only be subjected to waiting for five minutes. But boy, oh boy, were you wrong.

You were the first one to exit the church, and as attendees walked out after you, you had no choice but to stand awkwardly to the side, with your back leaning against the doors, and your hands interlocked behind your back, as you bid them all farewell. It was . . . unpleasant, and rather boring, if you did say so yourself, but it wasn’t the worst thing you could’ve spent nearly half an hour doing that afternoon. After all, you were sort of a celebrity in the small town of Bromwell.

Your mother was a well-known, and viable midwife, while, on the other hand, your father—he was. . . Your father was the preacher of the only church in Bromwell. The town was small in size, but not in population, no. Most of the populace consisted of devout Christians, but the religion had begun to lose followers when there weren’t any places of worship for a myriad of leagues. Your father took it upon himself to establish a church, and from then until now—well, you get the picture.

Of present time—in the year 1933 anno Domini, and of the small town you know as Bromwell, there wasn’t much diversity between your neighbors. Bromwell was bland, boring; everyone’s the same, everything’s the same. As a matter of fact, since birth, everyone, including you, was taught the one true principle; “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” It was short, it was concise, and you knew, or, well, you believed it to be the truth of the world.

If Bromwell was bigger, and as populated as a city, there would, perhaps, be a billboard near the sheriff’s building, with the motto of the town written on it in a big, bold font.

Anyway, by now, you must certainly get the picture, right?

Bromwell, Alabama. Far from any life other than the ones living in it. Dusty roads, humid summers, and dry winters. Not a pleasant place to live in, especially in times such as the Dust Bowl. It made waiting outside of the church a great pain. For seemingly four hours you stood outside—so many people exited in the duration, that, you even got to see your father as he left, but when he invited you to come on home with him, you coughed up some lame excuse, and he, after tipping his hat, walked off with your mother by his side.

Sighing, and clearly exhausted from standing around for so long, you were just about to call after your father, and take him up on his invitation, when, as if by the mercy of God, you heard a voice behind you, and the sound of doors slamming shut right afterwards.

“What the hell is a girl like you still doing here? Service ended a while ago, or, do people here just not know how to tell the time?”

Okay, that . . . that is not how you expected the pink-haired boy to sound. As you turned around to meet his eyes, your heart dropped to your feet. What the?—He was even taller in person! But, fortunately, his hair was the same as when you first saw him. Pink and rosy and uncombed. His eyes were unnatural, too, a mix, or some other sort, of a reddish brown color.

He walked outside alone, no guardian or parent in sight, no older sibling or relative. He was dressed rather nicely—not like a wealthy gentleman, but, rather, like he was living well-off—but, either way, it was nothing like the usual apparel of most residents here in Bromwell. You concluded that he was, without a doubt, not from here (which would also explain why this was your first meeting with him, you noted).

“Why would you say that?” you whisper-shouted, after looking around your surroundings in case anyone heard.

“Say what?”

“The H word. We’re right outside of a church, dummy; aren’t you afraid of God smiting you where you stand?”

“We’re outside, not inside; God won’t persecute me.”

You rolled your eyes. “God won’t persecute you, but I sure will. My papa built this church for all of Bromwell, y’know.”

“You call this a church? Looks like a shack to me.”

“Hey! There’s not much to work with here in the country. He worked hard to gather supplies and planks and all of that.”

“Pfft—Yeah, right. All of that junk, you mean.”

“What—What the hell is your problem, you . . . you jerk?”

“I thought you said not to say that word, squirt.”

You bit your tongue. “Why don’t you just shut up.”

“‘m not the type to take orders from little girls like you,” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest, “but okay.”

“. . .”

“Say something, dimwit,” you began, caving in. “You’re boring me.”

“I didn’t know I was your personal jester.”

You stuttered for words.

Questioning whether that was your first time hearing sarcasm, the boy laughed at your hesitance. It was almost sinister-sounding. “You’re kinda funny for a squirt, you know; I like that, you’re not like all the other wimps I’ve met so far. Hey, how about you be an upstanding citizen of Bromwell for once and ask me for my name or something? Do country folk not have manners?”

Still stuttering, you gave him your name, and offered a hand to shake, but it was declined.

“Don’t even think about it. I’m not touching that hand,” was the boy’s curt reply, after he introduced himself as Sukuna. “Not ever.”

“Why not?”

“Do I have to explain everything to you?” he scoffed, leaning down to your level, and getting all up in your face. “Your grimy little hand will give me cooties.”

The eight-year-old-you had never heard that word one day of your life, and a confused expression soon made its way onto your face.

Sukuna audibly facepalmed, and groaned into his hand. “C’mon, don’t tell me I have to explain what cooties are, too.”

That was it.

That was how you befriended Sukuna, though, he only accepted begrudgingly. It was more like an agreed companionship than friendship, honestly. Sukuna taught you more than any other mediocre teacher could have, and was, at least in the beginning, like the brother you had never had.

Sukuna was from the city, and, with his highly contrasting experiences and different walk of life, he had seen more and heard more than you (A/N: no offense to my country folk readers lmao). Sukuna explained slang—that was a big part of what he did as a sort of “mentor” to you. He also talked about the different types of weather he got, the views he saw from various points, the feeling of man-made pools and entertainment from television.

“TVs are for the rich,” Sukuna explained one time; “but my grandfather used to work under this nice man who occasionally let me sit in his living room and watch basically whatever I wanted, while he and my grandfather talked or something.”

“What did you watch?” you asked.

“. . .None of your business,” he said, blushing, “nothing that you should be watching, anyway.”

“‘Kuna, I don’t know if schooling is much different in the city than in the country, but we’re only a year apart.”

“A year is a big difference in knowledge.”

Sukuna wasn’t a particularly nice boy to you, but he was the closest you ever got to having a real friend, so you learned to take his jokes and banter with a grain of salt.

At school, you were a pretty sociable person, but your friends . . . well, weren’t really friends. They liked sitting with you during Service because it ensured them the best spots in the best pews, but that was it. They never ate lunch with you, never played with you during recess, and talked to you as if you were a mere stranger to them. They didn’t even think of you as a friend, honestly.

But Sukuna . . . Sukuna did.

While he may never have played silly games with you at lunch-recess, because he explained he was “too old to act like a silly, little child,” he still sat down on the innumerable blades of grass or dusty patches of dirt with you, and just . . . talked. You two talked a whole lot.

Sometimes, Sukuna would lie on his back, with shade from the tree above your figures granting him freedom, and he would toss an apple to and fro. The first time he did it, you were beyond confused, and brushed it off as “city-people behavior.” But, when he gave the apple to you after recess ended, and said, “Tossing it back and forth makes it taste sweeter,” that’s when you realized he was probably going to be your best friend for life.

Most people preferred to steer clear from you; they deemed you a goody two-shoes because of your father’s occupation as a preacher of faith, and didn’t bother listening to words that you actually said, but, rather, judged you merely on what was proclaimed by your father on Sundays. It was a common idea among your peers that you were some prim and proper “teacher’s pet,” or, well, in your case: “preacher’s pet.”

“What makes them think that?” asked Sukuna, one afternoon.

The two of you were outside at recess, squatting near a small pond; Sukuna was teaching you how to catch frogs—a hobby he had picked up the last summer he spent in the city, and also a hobby he hoped he could turn into a tradition with you.

“I . . . don’t know. I’ve spent almost half of my life with them as my classmates and neighbors, and I still don’t know,” you frowned, struggling to get a hold on a particularly slippery frog. “Do you . . . think I did something wrong?”

Sukuna chose not to respond, his eyebrows knitting together, creating an unreadable, conflicted expression on his face, as his grip around the neck of an innocent frog tightened to an extreme extent.

The silence dragged on for several minutes, only the croaking sounds of the frogs interrupting the calm, and your occasional grumbles of frustration at failure to capture said frogs.

Finally, shaking his head, as if escaping a trance, Sukuna didn’t say anything more as he finally released his unforgiving grip on the frog in his grasp, and threw it into your hands, to which you caught the amphibian with an elated squeal.

This marked the day everything changed.

During school, out on the playground, while walking on the dusty roads, even during Service—Sukuna had silently sworn to God that if anything or anyone were to hurt you ever again, he would be there.

He didn’t like to say it, and you knew that, but you had gradually learned over time that Sukuna wasn’t used to people being there for him, but maybe, just maybe, thought Sukuna, if he were there for you, you wouldn’t end up going down the same path as him.

And when Sukuna had his mind on something, he wouldn’t yield for anyone. But, worry not, Sukuna couldn’t care less about the black eyes he got from beating up kids who talked down on you. He knew you would never let him do it if he told you his plans beforehand, and he wasn’t exactly keen on having you see him do that, either, so he never got into too much trouble when you were by.

Sukuna saw his reflection in your eyes that day you told him the other kids didn’t like you much, and he had never wanted anything more than to get rid of the Fifth Commandment.

There were, however, other alternatives to violence (A/N: shocking, right?), and Sukuna took up the habit of hanging out with you more often. Well, actually, “habit” doesn’t quite cut it; at first, it was like a hobby—a sort of pastime to get his mind off of homicidal activities, then it was like something built into his everyday schedule, and then . . . and then it was life.

Throughout his nine years of living, Sukuna had never enjoyed many sports, movies, or books, but everything seemed to change when you came into the picture. You—a rowdy, willful, and unexpectedly and unintentionally funny little girl, whose father was the town of Bromwell’s preacher. You wanted to be his friend? You wanted to sit next to him during school? No; no, that couldn’t be, thought Sukuna, every time he laid awake at night.

But, with beginning friendships, always comes the “getting to know each other” stage, and that was perhaps the most enjoyable two weeks Sukuna had ever spent with someone other than just himself or with his grandfather.

“Do you have a favorite color?” you asked, one day.

The two of you were walking home from school together (another tradition you two created), and Sukuna would’ve answered, had you not cut him off immediately before he had any opportunity to.

“Wait, no, let me guess.” You paused your walking, put a hand on your hip, and rubbed your chin in thought. “Hmm, I would guess pink, but it’s literally the color you see every time you look in the mirror, and, if I were you, I would grow sick and tired of it.”

Sukuna shook his head in laughter, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. “You read into things too much.”

“Psychological tactic to get me farther from the right answer? Yeah, I think so.”

“Proved my point exactly, squirt.” Sukuna looked at you with a gaze neither you nor even Sukuna could comprehend as eight and nine year olds. There was a weird beating in his chest when he realized you were already looking at him, and he laughed again to mask his fragility.

You disregarded his words, and continued on. “Red? No. . . Blue—actually, purple? Wait, is it. . . Green! Yes, it has to be. It’s green, isn’t it?”

With all the hope you had in your body, you had greatly hoped that you were correct, but by the time you had guessed the color purple, Sukuna had already forgotten what his favorite color was, and what he said next was not his proudest moment now that he looked back at it as a man.

“Do you . . . like green?” he asked, redirecting the question to you. His eyes darted from corner to corner, avoiding eye contact as he tried to give off a nonchalant demeanor.

“Why wouldn’t I? I like all colors, y’know—maybe it’s just me, but I feel like if I liked one color too much, the others would get sad, and that’s why . . . that’s why. . .” You faltered, before beginning anew. “Anyway, yeah, I like green, but only when pickles aren’t a part of the equation. And, they’re not a part of the equation, . . right? You can promise me that much.”

Oh, but Sukuna could promise you much more. So much more.

“Sure. Yeah, no pickles.”

You looked at Sukuna with a reassured look after his declaration, and then, before you began walking again, you looked at him with a different look. A weird look—as if his presence disturbed you.

“Are you going to answer my question?” you asked, raising a brow.

“I just did.”

“No, silly, the other one. Is it green? Is your favorite color green?”

“I like green, yeah.”

That was how it went with Sukuna. No straight answers. Never, nada.

Even while you two ate lunch together side by side, while you two reenacted and geeked out over your favorite book scenes and movie scenes, while you two played a game of taking turns to crawl into a tire and have the other push them down the dusty, dusty roads—It was a racing game, (only occasionally, actually,) where you two would compete on who would make it to the designated end of the track first. You and Sukuna had neither the time, nor the care, honestly, to make authentic prizes, so the winner usually just had bragging rights for the rest of the day (or until the winner’s streak was broken).

You laugh about it now that you’re older, but you vaguely remember how, one time, you had rolled your ankle while going down a hill in a tire, and Sukuna had looked at you with an expression so full of sympathy and guilt that you actually couldn’t recognize him at first. It was nothing like Sukuna, and he even offered to let you punch him in the face as a strange form of compensation. But you laughed, simply choosing to walk it off.

Of course, like the stubborn mule he was, Sukuna didn’t let it end there, and he wouldn’t stop harassing you and forcing you to punch him until you finally put a hand on his shoulder, and looked him in the eye, saying, with as much humor as an eight year old could muster, “If you are so sorry, you can go and confess the sin you committed today: hurting a girl.”

With this, you hadn’t originally intended for Sukuna to go to Confession; you were merely joking, using sarcasm, as Sukuna had called it before, or so you remembered. But Sukuna, having not realized this, looked at you with great surprise, and almost reeled backwards, tripping over his untied shoelaces.

“You want me to . . . confess?” Although Sukuna tried to appear composed as he repeated your suggestion, you could clearly tell he was either horrified or extremely uneasy. His eyebrows knitted together, and he stared at you as if you were asking him to throw himself off a bridge.

“Well, yeah,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world; you wanted to keep the joke going as long as possible, for you thought Sukuna would be somewhat proud of you for finally having tricked him at something, and you couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized he had been bested. “Confess—I want you to confess.”

“Is that . . . absolutely, totally, really necessary?”

You grinned. “It’s absolutely, totally, really necessary for me to find out what ridiculous act of penance my dad will give you.”

When Sukuna realized you were joking the entire time, he audibly let out a breath of relief, and tried to casually laugh it off afterwards in order to cover up his clearly worried expression from before. But, Sukuna didn’t high-five you for succeeding in playing him, he didn’t laugh at your cleverness and how long you lasted character, he didn’t acknowledge anything regarding your prank, for that matter, at all.

Maybe you didn’t notice it at first due to how young you were at that time. But nowadays, you don’t joke about anything like that. Though, you did have many opportunities soon after that incident.

It wasn’t the last time Sukuna behaved strangely under the topic of a church-related subject, and it wasn’t the last time you mentioned a church-related subject either.

Children, the age of eight years, are usually at the stage of receiving their First Communion, or, at least, that was the way it went here in Bromwell. You had received the Eucharist a few weeks before you met Sukuna, so there was no need for you both to converse about it. Sukuna, on the other hand, was a twelvemonth older than you, and was expected to have already received his First Communion before moving to Bromwell.

He said it was the truth, you heard it was the truth, but you had never seen this supposed “truth.”

It wasn’t like you watched and observed your friends as they went up for the body of Christ, and made note of who was sat the whole time, but . . . you and Sukuna weren’t just friends—you two were best friends, and you thought, or, at least, you heard from Sukuna, that it was normal for best friends to be able to notice when their best friends were ill, or feeling down, or acting unlike themselves.

So, was it really strange for you to realize that Sukuna never actually received the body of Christ?

In some instances, he was stuck in the bathroom during the time, sometimes he was tying his shoelaces (but it would be an awfully long time spent tying one’s shoelaces), and sometimes, he was just nowhere to be found—even if you nearly cracked your neck turning around the whole church to find him. It was almost like he was a ghost, who disappeared and vanished.

A malevolent phantom, even.

But, the Eucharist wasn’t the only thing. Sukuna rarely said prayers aloud. He mumbled them, actually, and most of the time, you couldn’t even tell if he was mumbling or not. Sukuna always had his head down, and his eyes casted to the floor during prayer. There were rare occasions, though, where he would be looking up, but that was only if he was standing outside. Never inside, no.

In all honesty, this was quite the strange observation to make. Noticing your friend rarely prays aloud? Realizing his absence when others go to receive the Body and Blood?

At first, you didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, didn’t want to bring it up, even, but . . . at eight years old, you were so new to the world, and the world was so new to you. And, you just couldn’t help but let your curiosity get the best of you on one Wednesday afternoon.

School was out, you and Sukuna were outside and drawing in the dirt with sticks in his front lawn, and the sun was shining on your face, drying and hardening the bits of mud on your cheeks, hands, and elbows. There was a warmness about you, and a radiant gleam in your eyes—it scared the living daylights out of Sukuna, and he rarely held eye contact for longer than needed. The boy had been much more cautious around you lately, and you didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, to further get his attention as you simultaneously poked at him with a nearby stick. “Sukuna.”

He grunted, as if to give a sign that he heard you. (Or, maybe, he just wanted you to stop poking him.)

“Sukuna, I think you’re really weird.”

“. . .”

“Okay,” you paused, raising your hands in defense, “I’m sure that’s not surprising, since, like, everyone thinks you’re weird,” you laughed; “but I just wanted to point it out, because I noticed . . . something.”

“Okay. . ?” Sukuna raised a brow, never once pausing in his artwork—he was drawing a peacock, an animal you had never seen while living in Bromwell, and an animal he had apparently seen on television once, in the city. He briefly mentioned it earlier, and, due to your pestering and questioning regarding the animal, also wanted to show you what it looked like.

You took in a deep breath, and spat out what you supposedly noticed, and needed to say. “You never come up for Communion.”

Sukuna stopped like a deer caught in headlights (a phrase that Sukuna taught you; at school, it was labeled a figurative expression: a simile), and looked—not at you—but at his hands. He looked at his dirty, scarred hands, wiith an emotion on his face that you could not recognize.

“. . .”

You took his silence as a sign to continue, or, well, you interpreted it as one, but it might’ve just been your talkative nature speaking.

“Why is that? Have you not received your First Communion? I won’t tell anyone, swear.” You held out your pinky in the possibility that he would make you solemnly swear. “Won’t even make fun of you.”

But Sukuna didn’t take your pinky, didn’t even glance at it. He only spoke after a long moment’s pause, when he realized there was no escape. “It’s . . . not that. I received it—my First Communion. Got it when I was your age, actually. But, ah, you probably guessed that already.”

“So, why don’t you receive Communion anymore?”

“Geez, squirt, you sure ask a lot.” Sukuna laughed, and scratched the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t holding a stick.

You grinned, the heaviness in your chest seeming to alleviate. “I can’t help it, I’m a curious person, you know—”

Sukuna cut you off as he moved closer to the spot where you currently sat on the dirt. He began to work, scratching and scraping at a new drawing. Only this time, it wasn’t a male peafowl. Wasn’t even a bird or an animal. It was a woman. Sukuna responded to your still unanswered question by drawing a woman.

Now, you knew Sukuna was an artist, but this was just. . .

“Sukuna, she’s. . . She’s beautiful. But, who is she?” you asked. “Is she someone you know? An old crush from the city?”

Sukuna almost laughed. “That would . . . be incestuous.”

You scrunched your nose, your face wrinkling in the process. “What does that word mean?”

“Just . . . shut up, okay? For a few minutes at least.”

You nodded, with some reluctance.

“My mother—this is my mother,” Sukuna began, when he was done with the drawing. “When I was just around your age, fresh out of the first grade, and living a pretty . . . decent childhood in the city, my mother. . . She was,” he hesitated, “diagnosed with a cancer I don’t even want to waste my breath naming. It doesn’t deserve to be recognized for mortality.” He scoffed, continuing.

“My father was never present in my life, and I had neither a brother nor a sister. My mother worked a total of three jobs to feed us both and take care of my grandfather. Do you know what that’s like? No; no, you don’t. But that’s of no importance, really.

“I don’t know much about my father. My mother never liked speaking about him, and Grandpa only ever mentioned his name if he wanted to berate my mother for choosing such a man. Nevertheless, I still wished he would’ve been there when my mother fell ill. I tried calling him—multiple times, actually, but it only ever went to voicemail, and I never had the courage to speak into the void. I was afraid. Shy. I didn’t think there was anyone who would listen.”

You noticed his sudden pause, the dimness of his eyes, and you wanted to at least lighten the subject. “But, there was someone—who could’ve listened.”

Sukuna finally looked at you. “God? Is that who you’re referring to? You mean to tell me God could’ve listened? You are just,” he sucked in a breath, “so hilarious. God could’ve listened? Well, guess what, kid, he didn’t. Could’ve, but didn’t.

“I prayed three times a day, and more times than I could count on both hands in the evening, in the night, while I laid in bed, while I dreamed up a fantasy where stupid, stupid illnesses didn’t exist. I prayed like a madman. Do you hear that? A madman. Probably made it to God’s list of ‘Most Devout Followers,’ too, with the amount of Amens I muttered each week.

“So many prayers. So many prayers. But did that stop cancer? Did that prevent her passing? Did that aid in her recovery? God—fucking—damnit, do you realize? it didn’t. She’s gone. Six feet under. Flowers bloom from her grave, and yet no one’s there to water them.”

You didn’t have the resolve to point out a nine year old just cursed in front of you. You didn’t notice, anyway. “Sukuna—”

“Are you going to tell me it was God’s will? Are you going to tell me God loves me all the same? Even though He took my mother away? The woman who gave me life? Breath? No. Maybe God loves me, but He doesn’t know how to love me. Doesn’t know how I want to be loved. Loves me in a way I don’t understand. . . God loves me, so I’ve been told; but I want Him to stop.”

Sukuna doesn’t know how much you cried that night.

The both of you parted soon after he told you about his life before Bromwell; the silence became overwhelming, no more drawings were engraved onto the dirt, and the sticks were left scattered on the ground. There, really, was no other choice.

You went home that evening, and asked your father about God. About religion. About death. You wondered why people were left to die, why there was suffering and oppression in the world. Was it truly all in God’s will? If He created everyone in His image, did He create everyone to die, too? Why were we to perish? to finish? to end? You thought He loved you—wanted the best for you.

And, from what you understood, Sukuna thought that, too. Or, well, he used to. Sukuna used to be just like you. Prayed every day and every night, went to Service on Sundays, and came up for Communion like any other devotee. But, that was when he believed, that was when he had faith; that was when he had reason to have faith. That was then, and now is now. Sukuna gave up on his religion, and his religion abandoned him. His move from the city to the country was based on convenience, but what is convenience in a world based on faith? Belief in the invisible?

Your father didn’t have much to say, and to answer you with. He honestly wasn’t expecting to have this conversation with you so soon, and at such a young age. But, what did he have to say, made you even more lost. Just as lost, as someone you believed you knew.

The proclamation of Genesis 3:19: “By the sweat of your face you will eat bread, till you return to the ground, because from it you were taken; for you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Death was an interesting topic for you, from that moment until now. Since your birth you had been taught the one true principle: “Live by God, and by God, you shall live.” But, after Sukuna opened your eyes a little further, and introduced death in a way you hadn’t acknowledged before, you didn’t know if there was one true principle at all. How were you to live by the words of a god you could neither see nor hear nor feel, and how was that very god going to grant you the will to live, if you were to perish in the end?

You had never once doubted the existence of God. You had been born into your religion, and you didn’t question whether you would have your funeral in a church or not. But . . . as you look at your rosary while you kneel at the side of your bed before you sleep, hanging your head in prayer and whispering words of invocation, you cannot help but remember his face. His face while he talked about his mother. His face while he talked about his father. His face while he talked about his grandfather.

Did you look like that when you spoke to God? Did you carry a burden so heavy, so you could lift it up to your Creator—in the end? The one who would rid you of your sorrows, your griefs, your troubles? But, how was that to be done? When the Creator gave you those in the beginning?

You knew how.

Death.

But, was that really the end?

There was always Heaven, as well. The place where you shall reside once you meet your finish. The place where you shall live with your god, in eternal life. But, could it be, that you would see—see others that had gone and passed, just like you. . ? Would you see his mother? Would you see him? Would you see those eyes? Those eyes that held such emotion one could not possibly comprehend?

Children don’t understand much, Sukuna was right. A year was a large difference in knowledge. But, you could only hope that Sukuna didn’t know how much you cried that night. For him, for his mother, for his grief, for everyone who had lost a life—whether it was theirs and their own, or it was a loved one’s.

You didn’t have a conclusion or a thesis; you didn’t have a hypothesis in the first place. But, from this night on to the next, you soon began to think, that when the stars eventually burned, when the world flipped on its side, when the seas came out dry, maybe then—maybe then you would know, instead of believe, maybe then you would know, that there really was a god out there . . . a god who hated you.

For, you remember his face from that evening like it was yesterday, and you feared you would never forget—more or less, you feared the eventual day that face would soon be your own.

***

You didn’t utter a single question regarding any aspects or traditions or customs of religion for the next decade. You didn’t mention Christmas, didn’t talk about prayer, didn’t bring up the Gospel. And you rarely, if ever, spoke about your father to Sukuna. This was, however, all within your will; you chose to respect Sukuna’s wellbeing, and you decided to remain as neutral as ever when you two were together.

The first time you saw Sukuna, after the week where he confessed his past to you, was awkward. The room you two were in was stuffy, and humid, and you felt as if you couldn’t speak. Words didn’t leave your throat, and Sukuna’s eyes never met yours. He sat as far away from you as possible, and you wondered if he hated you, but then you wondered how that could ever be. You never spoke ill of Sukuna, especially not to his face, and you never did anything he was uncomfortable with or detested.

The only thing Sukuna held against you was your father, a preacher. A preacher of the very religion Sukuna swore he could never take up again.

It wasn’t your fault he converted, so why was he avoiding you? Why was he punishing you?

When you were eight years old, you feared no one but God. And that showed, because, when you stalked up to Sukuna—wearing old, scruffed overalls and muddy boots—you didn’t cower before him, didn’t get on your knees and ask him to be your friend again. Instead, you did what no one else ever did or dreamed of: you slapped him.

“What is your problem?” you asked, watching as Sukuna barely flinched from the assault.

“My problem?” he laughed. “You’re the one who slapped me.”

Honestly, Sukuna would have never spoken to you again after his confession, had you not approached him first. He didn’t know whether you befriended him solely for him, or for any sayings from the Bible. But, it was nice: knowing that you were his friend despite conflict of religion. He had been avoiding you lest you bring up the topic of “Atheism, Sukuna, and God” up to your father. For, well, Sukuna wasn’t exactly keen on that man knowing any of his business, and obtaining the knowledge from his daughter, no less, who asked everything from an innocent heart.

On the other hand, needless to say, you were glad Sukuna wasn’t the least bit affected by the happenings of last week. Maybe he frowned and sighed when speaking about his deceased mother, but that didn’t last, or, well, it didn’t seem like it. Sukuna—the Sukuna you knew—was back. And he was as cunning, witty, and snarky, as ever. Perhaps his confession brought the two of you closer.

Sukuna was never afraid of bringing up anything to you again (not like he ever was, he just didn’t feel the need), and you—the same. But, if there ever was a case, you two had mutually and unanimously created a tradition of engraving your confessions in the dirt: drawing with sticks what you could never even dare to whisper. Your bond was stronger than ever, and, as the years passed by, the two of you soon grew inseparable.

So inseparable, in fact, that . . . by the age of thirteen, you had even developed a little, silly crush on the pink-haired boy. Well, actually, back then, he was a boy, but that was then, and now is now. Sukuna wasn’t a little boy anymore, and you weren’t just a little girl anymore. The two of you were a little grown, a bit older: teenagers—thirteen and fourteen. You didn’t know exactly when it first began, but, when you started laughing at jokes that Sukuna said (even when they weren’t funny) just because he said them, and when you started to toss around all your apples as if it were a reflex, and when you started to become a little less independent, that’s when you knew.

You were the eldest daughter to the town’s preacher. Your parents weren’t often home, and you learned, in the process, to fend for yourself most of the time. You were cheeky, said jokes that sometimes cut too deep, and were used to doing things yourself. But, when Sukuna came into the story, most things changed. You were both the eldest childs, and you were both the only childs. What’s worse, was how stubborn you both were—Little Miss “I Can Do It Myself” and Mister “Sit Down.”

Sukuna taught you to relax, while also simultaneously kicking things up a notch. Yeah, he was clearly a bad example, but he was also a great best friend. He let you rely on him more than you relied on anyone during the whole span of your life, and you two were often named as partners in crime. Devious, mischievous, and troublesome. You kept Sukuna on his toes, and didn’t leave him up to too much bad, while he, on the other hand, let you experience letting go of expectations and rules.

From the second grade all the way to the ninth, you and Sukuna developed countless inside jokes, party tricks, stories, and so much more.

Sukuna climbed through your window when you weren’t allowed to leave the house, and stayed and talked with you until you were. He looked at you like you hung the moon and stars, he laughed with you like you changed the course of speed and time, and he talked about you to his grandfather like you were the love of his life—and you were! A year was a big difference in knowledge, but, funny enough, neither of you knew how much hanging out with each other would change things.

The fifth grade was when the two of you first held hands.

Sukuna had told you a story about how he supposedly heard a coyote in the middle of the night, and when you called him a chicken for not going outside to check, he forced the both of you to sneak out, late at night, to face the alleged coyotes. You two were both young, and the atmosphere was already eerie enough that, when you heard even the faintest sound of wind snapping and a rocking chair rocking, you subconsciously took Sukuna by the hand and made a dash for it.

(Neither of you speak about that night—and whether that’s out of embarrassment for being scared of a coyote, or embarrassment of holding hands, no one knows.)

The eighth grade was when the two of you had your first date.

And, yes, I know, thirteen year olds are a bit young for that thing, but your and Sukuna’s date wasn’t exactly planned, per se. You were trying to make an excuse in order to get out of watching your mother help one of her patients give birth (which is a very gruesome sight, according to Sukuna), and Sukuna, who was standing beside you whilst you argued with your mother, decided to silently interrupt you and take his leave. But you, perhaps out of spite, grabbed him by the collar, yanked him back in the house, and told your mother that you two were both just leaving, and that watching a birthing process was not part of the schedule.

The two of you awkwardly, and with a significant amount of tension in the air, took each other by the arm and walked to . . . absolutely nowhere. You two walked out of the house sweating, because your mother was watching you like a hawk from the window, and you just followed wherever Sukuna walked, but then, you realized that, Sukuna was just following wherever you were walking. So the two of you walked in circles for approximately half of an hour, before you both decided to take a detour towards a nearby river, and splash around.

(You came home with soaking wet clothes that day, and your mother immediately exclaimed, with the assumption that you and Sukuna were not just swimming, “I knew I should have shown you the horrors of pregnancy,” which left you scarred—for life, possibly, because you never got a chance to explain yourself.)

The eleventh grade was when the two of you kissed for the first time.

The calendar marked the day of Christmas, and the town of Bromwell was as festive as it could get. Your neighbors hung up tinsel and other various drapings on their porches, the smell of gingerbread and candy cane wafted through the air, and the excessive number of candles in the church were all lit up. Service had just ended, and you were walking down the empty streets—everyone and their mother was probably already inside, enjoying the Christmas spirit. But, if you had to be honest, you were beginning to get a bit worried; you hadn’t seen Sukuna all day, and, well, you knew Christmas was always a delicate subject for him, but he usually showed up every once in a while on the sacred holiday.

You remembered the year before this one; you and Sukuna had hung out at your house, while your parents did whatever it was that they did at other friends’ and families’ houses. You insisted, begged, actually, for your parents to let the two of you spend the holiday together. And, as they knew you to be quite the responsible daughter, they complied with your request.

You and Sukuna spent the day decorating gingerbread houses, sipping eggnog, and baking several various treats. Until the evening, where you two spent the rest of your time huddled up together on the sofa, sleepily murmuring stories and giggling to yourselves, before snores began to erupt, and your parents found you and Sukuna cuddled up together in the morning.

All in all, Sukuna didn’t care for the birth of Bromwell’s savior, but he enjoyed the winter season and what it had to bring. Although he never showed up for mass on this day, he still frequented your house, or his own house, where you two spent the evening enveloped in holiday cheer. But, today was different.

Sukuna hadn’t shown up at all: didn’t knock on your window early in the morning to wake you up, didn’t surprise you with baked goods (courtesy of his grandfather’s knack for baking), didn’t even throw snowballs at you when you were most vulnerable (taking out the trash). You felt a sense of loneliness; Bromwell was quiet without him, and, apparently, so was his own house. The Itadori residence was completely empty, save for the Grandfather, so, wherever Sukuna was, it wasn’t anywhere here.

Coming up fruitless after your search, you were about to head home—maybe spend some time with your own family, when, by your surprise, you passed by the church, which was still open, and still lit up. This was . . . a surprise, to say the least; your father usually packed everything up and locked the building when everyone finished heading out, but, maybe, even for just this night, that wasn’t so.

Each step you took upon entering the church echoed. The dimmed candle-lighting, paired with the quiet atmosphere and empty setting, created an eerie feeling, almost opposite of what Christmas embodied. You didn’t like it, hated it, actually; the stillness of the night never failed to give you the heebie-jeebies, and you felt that intensely on this very night.

You shrugged your shoulders, shifted your scarf around your neck, and attempted to tell yourself that your father probably just forgot to turn off the lights, and that you were going to do the honors in his stead before sprinting back home, but you changed your mind as soon as your eyes made their way to the back of the church, and you drank in the appearance of none other than Sukuna himself, as he sat in the very last row of pews.

“Sukuna? What—What are you doing here?” You could feel a smile etch onto your face, as you began to make your way through the church, weaving through rows and rows of pews before you found yourself taking a seat right beside Sukuna. His arm wrapped around the back of the bench, and pulled you closer to him.

“Not excited to see me? What, don’t tell me you’ve turned your back on me, as well.” Sukuna appeared composed and cool, but his body radiated warmth, which you dreadfully lacked. “Most of Bromwell’s figured me out already, started whispering my name right next to Satan’s—calling me a son of a bitch, an atheist, a scoundrel. Is the preacher’s lovely little daughter doing that, too?”

“Hey, don’t joke around like that, especially not on Christmas. Where’s your holiday cheer?” You used your thumb to stretch out the corner of Sukuna’s mouth, revealing his canines as you forced him to muster a lame excuse for a smile. “You are such a Scrooge, you know, always wearing this same exact scowl. Your face is just so mad all the time.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, dragging your face closer to his. “You don’t like this face? Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“Maybe. Why? Gonna do something about that?” Your eyes peered into his, and his into yours; and you swore he could see through your soul right then and there. Maybe he really was Satan, after all, you joked.

Sukuna laughed, before saying, with a mocking tone, “Maybe. But it depends, you might not like what I’ll do.”

“There really isn’t much worse you could do besides meet me in the back of an empty church.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, it’s not like you would know, anyway. You don’t follow any of the Commandments; you don’t know what’s bad or good for me, at all.”

“Are you implying I don’t know what anything means?”

“Mm, yeah.” You leaned closer to Sukuna, your noses nearly touching.

“That’s kind of harsh coming from the preacher’s daughter,” Sukuna joked; “but, hey, I don’t have to be religious to know what this means.”

Sukuna pulled out a mistletoe from God knows where, and dangled it above your head like a child taunting its opponent. Bits of snow dusted off the branches, landing on the tops of your heads, but neither of you cared much, at least not in the moment; the most Sukuna did was push a strand of loose hair out of your face, but he did nothing more except meet your gaze.

Your heart was pounding, but you had had a few cups of apple cider earlier, and your stomach felt warm while the tip of your nose glowed; you felt as if ready to even take on Mount Everest, so, if you haven’t gotten the picture yet: you weren’t nervous for anything. Well, maybe save for the possibility that your father or literally anyone else could walk in on the two of you.

“I . . . change my mind,” you whispered, speaking languidly as you leaned in ever so slightly; “there is worse we could do besides meet in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“And, that is?”

“We could . . .” Your eyes roamed Sukuna’s face as you spoke, and you admired the occasional freckle you discovered in your way. “We could kiss in the back of an empty church after hours.”

“‘Kiss?’” Sukuna repeated, raising an eyebrow as if to challenge you. “That’s all you’ve got?”

When you woke up this morning, you didn’t expect to end the Christmas day making out with your childhood best friend, Sukuna, in the back of an empty church, but, fate doesn’t wait for just anyone’s opinions, and you couldn’t help yourself when Sukuna looked at you the way he did. You couldn’t help yourself when you tangled your hands in his hair, and met his lips with yours—the sweet taste of eggnog on your tongue following soon after.

Mistakes weren’t made that night, but you went to your monthly Confession the next morning anyway.

You and Sukuna didn’t start dating until . . . well, actually, you two never actually started dating—in a sense, at least. There was never a candle-lit dinner, where it was just the two of you, speaking in low voices over a furnished table in the dark. There was no question such as Will you be my girlfriend? or, even, Will you be my boyfriend? but, that was okay. It was clear enough how you two felt about each other, and, even if it wasn’t, the amount of kisses Sukuna gave you whether you two were alone or surrounded, and the amount of nights you two spent laying on stacks of hay in his grandfather’s barn, whispering sweet-nothings to each other, ought to have said enough about your relationship.

Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and you were always too embarrassed to bring up the fact your relationship wasn’t official, like, at all. But, most of your neighbors knew that their preacher’s daughter was dating the county’s atheist by the time you got into the twelfth grade, and that there was nothing they could do about that except for subtly look down upon you both, and convince themselves your relationship wasn’t serious enough to make it to marriage.

Your father never spoke ill about Sukuna; and, as far as you knew, he always saw the pink-haired delinquent (an affectionate nickname) as a bright boy: a respectful young man, who looked at his daughter like a goddess incarnate, despite whatever religion he partook in. As for how your mother felt about your boyfriend: she thought that as long as she wasn’t going to have to deliver your baby any time soon, she couldn’t have cared less.

But, it’s not like you actually cared about how anyone felt about Sukuna. What mattered most was how you felt about him—I mean, he was your boyfriend, after all. And, how you felt about Sukuna was . . . beyond definable. He was Sukuna, you were you, and that’s all you knew. Well, that’s all you knew in this moment, as you sat under the light of the moon—cascading through windows of Sukuna’s barn—as the two of you huddled up together, sharing kisses and purposely interrupting each other as you spoke with a volume just above a whisper.

The horses were asleep, (you and Sukuna had gone riding earlier in the day), but you were neither tired nor cold, even in this winter weather. You often found yourself feeling warm, your heart racing in your chest, whenever you were with Sukuna, and the heat which always rose to your cheeks did a good job at showing it.

“You make me hate myself,” Sukuna whispered, leaning his back against the sleeping friesian behind him, while his arm slithered around your waist, subtly pulling you closer to him every once in a while.

You laughed, wondering if he was just sleep-talking at this point. His voice was rough, and cold, but his skin was warm, and he didn’t wait for an answer from you before continuing.

“Do you know how stupid you make me feel? God, it’s like. . . You’re like an angel that has descended upon this wretched earth, and guess what, I’m the fool who’s fallen in love with you. This whole town’s praying for my downfall, you know that, angel?—for Satan to finally drag my ass back down to the depths of Hell, but. . .”

“Would you go?”

“. . .Where?”

“Would you go with him?”

“No.” Sukuna shook his head, laughing like a drunkard. “No, not even God could pull me away from you.”

“Why?”

“I wouldn’t let Him.”

“How do you know you’ll succeed?”

“Because I don’t believe in anything besides the fact that you are the closest I’ll ever get to Heaven. You are an angel that has been bestowed upon my black heart, you are every dark thought—every demonic idea—that has ever plagued my mind. You may taste like paradise, but even God knows you are a religion for only the lowest lovesick fools to have ever roamed this godforsaken planet.”

You turned around in Sukuna’s hold, looping your arms around his neck, and pulling him closer to you. “Would that make you religious, then? A devout follower?”

“For you? Always.”

That conversation was a fortnight ago. You’ve officially entered your twenties now, and everyone knows a new decade means a new chapter, especially for first-time lovers like you. It doesn’t feel any different, though; you’re older, but nothing’s changed. At least, you didn’t think so. Turning twenty meant you had been dating Sukuna for three years, and, well, in Bromwell, there was only one thing to be expected. Marriage; a topic that’s being brought up more frequently at your dinner table, whether you liked it or not.

You were an adult now. You’ve been an adult, actually, but eighteen and nineteen year olds were never as relevant as twenty year olds.

In full honesty, and full confidence, you didn’t care much for seeing yourself in a white gown and white veil. Being married is a title, it’s an expectation, it’s a milestone. It’s not . . . it’s not kismet. Being married meant you had a ring on your finger. But, when you compared it to simply being boyfriend-girlfriend, you didn’t see much of a difference. Now, you don’t mean to be ‘woke’ or prejudiced, you just didn’t feel much significance in the holy sacrament of matrimony.

Not that you would ever say that aloud, though. . . Especially when you’re eating dinner with your very old fashioned parents who have very old fashioned ideals.

“How is—How is Sukuna, by the way?” began your father, as he cut into a smoked pork shoulder.

“He’s how he’s always been, sir.” You offered a small smile, placing your cutlery back down. “Why the sudden interest?”

“I am simply a curious man,” he laughed. “But, I must say, I feel quite sympathetic towards him.”

“. . .May I remind you that his mother died years ago, father—”

“My child, I am not talking about that.” His tone cut cold, and deep, like an icicle, and you suddenly noticed the strangeness of the air which surrounded the dinner table; this was no simple conversation.

Your eyes wandered your father’s face from across the table for any hint to what on earth he was going on about, but he evaded all eye contact. Your mother, on the other hand, remained silent, excluded from the conversation whether it was by her own will or not; she sat beside your father like a statue—beautiful, but with no exact purpose.

“Pardon?”

Your father cleared his throat. “Sukuna does know what is to come, correct?”

“Father, even I do not know what you are talking about; never mind him.”

“You are my only daughter, you hear? You are my eldest child, my only child. I founded the one, single church of Bromwell, and you take after me. How will this county react when they hear you are to be wed off to an atheist?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“You are twenty years old. You are going to be married. Tomorrow, next week, next year. It will happen. My point isn’t that I’m going to rush you, that is hardly my job.”

You blinked. “Then, . . what is your job?”

Your father laughed. “You do not mean you are going to marry Sukuna, are you?”

“How is that relevant?”

“I let you talk with Sukuna, I let you hang around that fellow, I let you eat with that man in my own house. Several times, actually. But, regardless, that was all when you were young. I remember my first relationships, you know; they weren’t as serious as I would’ve liked to hope. But, you do know . . . I am not letting you anywhere near that man if he has a ring in his pocket.”

“Father, blessings from the in-laws before asking a woman’s hand in marriage are hardly relevant nowadays.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“I’m . . . sorry?”

“I always assumed you were in love with him because you were young, and everything was so new to you. But, don’t tell me you intend to stay with him for longer than you need to. Sukuna Ryomen Itadori is . . . an atheist. He’s turned his back on our religion. He’s abandoned our god. His eyes skip over our scripture.”

“. . .Why is that, sir? Why does he keep quiet when others are in prayer? Why does he close his eyes when we, instead, look above to the heavens? Because he has no reason to, don’t you see? Would you consider him a sinner even if he had never, once in his life, ever heard God’s name? You wouldn’t, because you would proclaim the Word of the Lord to him, anyway.”

“You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Do I, now?” you asked. “I may believe in what I call my God, and Sukuna may believe in what he knows to be his truth. We all come from different walks of life, father; and you can’t change that. There is nothing wrong with what Sukuna’s chosen for himself, and your fragility and selfishness won’t ever change that. I can marry whomever I please. I can give my hand to anyone who I deem worthy of it. You are my father; you gave me life, but you do not choose my outcomes.”

“I do not choose your outcomes, you say? Well, you make me laugh quite a bit, don’t you, because I already have.”

“. . .You have?”

“That’s what I just said. I’ve chosen your outcome, your future, your fate. He has a name, too, would you like to hear it?”

You stood up from the table so quickly your chair nearly fell over, scraping against the floor with a rather harsh sound. “I am not marrying someone I hardly know.”

“Even if it is God’s will?” your father asked, mocking you. “You are young, you’ll understand sooner or later.”

“Who do you take me for? I am entirely confident when I say I could never love a man I’ve neither seen nor heard.”

“My child, you ought to learn before you speak; joining in matrimony is not always done out of love.”

Your eyes flickered to your mother, who was as still as she was before, and you almost dropped down on your knees to beg forgiveness for any wrong you had ever done towards her. But you didn’t, you didn’t kneel, didn’t fall. Instead, you took a step towards the door.

“You are a child of God. And may I remind you, that no daughter of mine shall marry a nonbeliever. You walk out of that door right now, and you best believe you can call yourself an estranged child.”

When you moved to take another step, you turned around just in time to miss staying in line of aim of the empty beer bottle your father threw. It crashed behind you—shattering, falling to the floor—and left just the tiniest dent on the wall it hit. So tiny, in fact, that you wouldn’t have noticed it had it not been of impact in the very spot your head just was, milliseconds before.

You did not wait another moment to leave that house, and ran out as fast as you could, while your father, enraged, sat and mulled in his anger.

As you crushed leaves and twigs beneath your feet in your distress and hurry, you muttered prayers to God like a madman, wiped your tears with your sleeves every few seconds, and asked for your mother’s forgiveness as if you had just disgraced her lineage. But, you didn’t; instead, you ended a line of sorrow, misery, humiliation; you left because you wanted something anew, you wanted. . . You wanted Sukuna.

You don’t know how long you ran for, or in what direction you ran, even, but your legs ached, and you soon found yourself at a river bank, in the middle of nowhere—you couldn’t spot any houses or signs of life for leagues. The water was muddy, dirty, brown, and you could hardly see your reflection in it; still, you could just barely make out your disheveled state: your messy hair, tear-stained cheeks, trembling lips. You looked like a mess, and you were one. Metaphorically and literally. You looked nothing like a preacher’s daughter, but, it didn’t matter, you weren’t a preacher’s daughter anymore; you weren’t anyone’s daughter, in fact . . . only God’s.

When Sukuna told you about his family, about the death in his family, you questioned God and His ways. But you eventually went back to how you were before—a devout follower. Now that you’re older, you understand the picture more clearly. It’s not God you question and doubt, it’s His people. Men choose gods so that they have someone to blame, to use as reasoning, to make themselves feel less alone in this vast universe. It’s been done for years. Religion is man-made; immortal beings do not bleed; and belief is truly, utterly voluntary. You could believe in God, while hating His people, and the scripture would all be the same.

Nevertheless, you hated it. All of it. Why was your father like this? Why was everyone like this? Why did no one understand? What was so hard to comprehend?

You did not hesitate when you ripped off one of the several necklaces you wore around your neck, dropping it into the river bed, and watching as it traveled elsewhere. Anywhere—but here, you prayed, as you sat down on the dead grass to do nothing but sob.

You were wrong. So wrong. Your father didn’t want anything to do with Sukuna; what’s worse, he took you as the person to date someone for fun. Your father assumed you were mindlessly dating Sukuna. Was that all he thought of you? Did he even consider you his daughter?—His daughter, who he forbade from dating outside of religion?

All your life, you had been nothing but who you were supposed to be. Charitable, smart, generous, charming. Now, you couldn’t even recognize yourself anymore.

Maybe you were hallucinating, too, because hours had passed since you ran out of your house, and now, as you sat on the river bank and stared at your reflection, you could make out another faint reflection besides yours. A figure, walking from a distance. Then, a face. A reflection of a man. A reflection of . . . Sukuna.

He looked like he had been walking all around town for you, and there was sweat on his forehead to show for that. Sukuna called your name as he approached, seemingly unbeknownst of the fact you were practically bawling your eyes out, and began to ask you something stupid, but then he stopped as soon as he was close enough to sit down beside you, switched the subject, and asked, with earnest, “Your necklace. Your necklace, where is it?”

“I’m . . . wearing a necklace right now, Sukuna.” You wiped the remaining tears flowing from your eyes on your sleeves, which blew and billowed in the wind. Thankfully, you were always skilled at masking emotion, and Sukuna didn’t seem to have noticed your weeping prior to his arrival.

Sukuna looked at the pearls you had strung around your neck with not so much as even a full glance. “No, not that one. Where’s your . . . where’s the other one?” Sukuna turned his head in all four directions, and looked as if he were searching for something rather important.

“What other one?”

Sukuna licked his lips, using searching as an excuse for avoiding your eyes. “The . . . cross. Or, if it is called the crucifix instead, I am not sure.”

Your mouth opened, lips parted ever so slightly, but you couldn’t breathe. “. . .No; no, you’re right. It’s a cross. A crucifix has the image of Jesus on it.”

Sukuna looked at you now that your eyes were casted downward, and scanned your face with wonder. You were so angelic even when you were miles from home, shivering in the cold, crying your eyes out (yes, Sukuna could tell you were crying earlier; he was an attentive man, after all). Sukuna never felt confident enough to do half of the things he wanted to do whenever you were looking at him. Your eyes scared him, deeply—reminded him of too many people he would rather leave in the dust.

And, if that wasn’t enough, Sukuna didn’t have a way with words, and most definitely did not know how to comfort anyone (especially when he had no context). But, at least, he didn’t care much for any of that “What happened?” bullshit. What happened was your business, not his, but how you felt, on the other hand, . . was a different story.

Anyway, Sukuna didn’t say anything until he was sure you were okay; it was a whisper—of the words: “I love you.”

It was quiet, so subtle; you wondered if Sukuna even meant for you to hear it, but, nevertheless, you met his eyes with glassy ones—red, dimmed, distant—and asked, with the little strength you had left, “Why are you telling me that?”

“Just in case . . . you hadn’t heard those words in a long time.”

Your lips trembled, and you could feel the waterworks beginning again as you moved to sit on Sukuna’s lap, burying your face into his neck as his arms enveloped you at the drop of a hat with warmth, stability, and, you couldn’t quite put your finger on the last one, which was . . . peace. Come to think of it, you had never felt peace in such a long time. But it wasn’t the usual tranquility you felt, it wasn’t any of that, at all. It was just, simply, Sukuna. You were feeling Sukuna.

Which was, actually, quite ironic, if you did say yourself. All these years spent together, Sukuna always called you his angel, his blessing, his God-given miracle. He said you changed him for the better, you turned his life around, showed him a brightness and happiness he had never seen once in his whole life. But, maybe it was really the opposite. Maybe Sukuna was the one who saved you. The only man who could ever truly understand you: Sukuna—your first, and your last love.

“You make me feel so stupid,” you murmured, between sniffles, once you began to run out of tears.

“With my high intellect?” Sukuna joked. “Yeah, don’t worry, lots of people feel the same way.”

You sat upright, giving a playful shove at Sukuna’s chest. “You are such a bastard.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called.”

You laughed, because you struggled to do anything else. “I can’t believe you’ve seen me cry now. This is incredible blackmail,” you grumbled.

“. . .I know.”

“Let’s just . . . forget this ever happened, okay? I’m fine now. I—I’m okay. You’re here, and . . . you’re here.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to say anything else?” you began, mindlessly playing with the fabric of Sukuna’s collar. “You’ve been saying the same thing over and over again like some giant oaf.”

“I know.”

“Hey! You . . . Sukuna!”

Sukuna threw his head back, laughing like a child, and you tackled him to the ground (with little to no malicious intent), which ended up with you straddling his hips.

“I’m . . .” You hesitated, brushing stray hairs out of Sukuna’s eyes. “I’m sorry you had to see that—all of that, actually.”

“You’re sorry?”

“. . .”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, and sat upright, pulling you closer to him in the process. “You don’t ever need to tell me why you were crying for me to know you were clearly the victim in whatever the hell ever happens, you know. I’ve . . . been with you long enough to know that. The people of Bromwell suck, and your father’s a piece of shit; the reason you had to wait so long for me the first time we met, was because I was stuck in Confession with him, by the way. Such a nosy little—”

“Okay, okay, that’s . . . I get it.” As much as you appreciated the sentiment, you weren’t one to be ‘fond’ of hearing your father be slandered, or anyone, for that matter. “Thank you, really. I . . . don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re with me right now, angel. What are you gonna do with that? What are you going to do with me?”

You grinned. “I don’t know off the top of my head.”

Sukuna looked at you with longing, his eyes piercing through your soul—watching your every move—as you placed one hand at the side of his neck, and one on his cheek, drawing both of your faces closer and closer, till you couldn’t differentiate where his breath ended and where yours started.

“Any suggestions?” you asked, smiling.

“Many.”

Without missing a beat, Sukuna closed the space between the both of you, placing a soft kiss against your lips and pulling back, as if to test the waters, before knocking the wind out of your throat and smashing his lips back against yours. The two of you moved in sync, your bodies molding against each other as if two pieces of a puzzle, and, at that very moment, you abandoned any sense of control, chastity, and purity. Sukuna overtook all of your senses and virtues; but, honestly, you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Sukuna’s hands moved to your hips, kneading the flesh there and keeping a grip so tight you were sure it would end up purple and blue the next morning.

“Does this suggestion suit your royal highness?” Sukuna teased, between kisses.

“Mm, it will do . . . for now, I suppose.”

With Sukuna, you had never gone past kissing. Never ventured, never planned, but . . . you couldn’t say you never thought about making it to third base. And, with the way Sukuna’s hands wandered and subtly slipped just under your skirt, you could guess he thought something relatively similar.

Sukuna’s hands roamed your thighs from beneath your skirt, his fingers lighting a path of electricity, which shocked you in their way; and you found your breath getting caught in your throat. He touched you as if he were a madman, feeling Heaven for the last and first time—like you could disappear at any given moment, and he was savoring every second spent with you.

“You’re . . . impatient, today.”

Sukuna laughed. “Scared? Don’t worry, I always dip my hands in Holy Water before I even think about touching you.”

You placed a kiss on the side of Sukuna’s mouth, rolling your eyes. “Oh, shut up, you make it sound as if you’re . . . worshipping me or something.”

“I am.”

“You . . . what?”

Sukuna looked up at you with half-lidded eyes, whilst his hands never paused for a second while trailing up your legs, near your core, up your spine, and back down to where they originally started. His touch was soft, gentle, as if cautious of destroying you, erasing any trace of the angel God had given him. His fingers—usually rough, and cold—were instead warm, and lit a fire somewhere inside of you.

From your position above Sukuna, you sucked in a breath. You had to give it to him; for a man so frequently called Satan incarnate, his eyes were so temptingly full of yearning. But his voice was mocking, full of tease and banter, and you could no longer decide if this was truly your reality.

“Your throat is so raw from praying to a God who does not listen.”

“Is this your attempt at seducing me to apostasy?”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Let me be the one to hear your prayers, instead. Your wants, your needs, your desires; allow me, my darling angel, to satiate you better than any man or deity can.”

You did not know what had become of you, when you pulled Sukuna by the collar, and met his lips with yours. A wave of bliss overwhelmed you, and your head soon became full of nothing but the name of the man whose tongue explored every interstice and crevice of your mouth, your neck, your clavicle. His hands roamed your skin, his mouth crashed against yours, and your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer than you thought possible.

Your hips rocked forwards and backwards, as the sound of moans and mewls made their way past your lips. You had never entertained the idea of giving yourself to anyone prior to marriage, but maybe—maybe you could make an exception for someone like Sukuna.

There was no banter, no talk, no mumbling or murmuring for any longer. Only frantic, desperate movements as Sukuna clumsily unbuckled his belt, and shoved your panties to the side; for, neither of you could wait a second more. With your mouths still pressed against one another’s, Sukuna’s fingers made their way to the wetness between your legs, and slipped past your entrance, curling and twisting, applying pressure to where you needed him most.

It was so unbearable. And so, utterly, hot. Since when was the evening ever this hot? You two were in the middle of nowhere, outside past ten o’clock; the sky was painted a dark shade of indigo, crickets and birds sounded in their domain, and you and Sukuna? You two were whispering to each other, running your hands over each other’s bodies; you writhed and wriggled as Sukuna’s fingers never paused in their assault, and you couldn’t help the pornographic cries which left your throat.

It was unbearable.

You had never felt pleasure so intense like this. Your head spun, you clawed at Sukuna’s back, your body arched, and you whimpered and moaned like your life depended on it. You could not draw a line between pleasure and pain, and, you wondered . . . was this what sinning felt like? So good, but, at the same time, so bad?

You didn’t come undone on Sukuna’s fingers until what seemed like hours had passed by—hours of him toying with your clit: drawing you to the edge and back over again, never once allowing your release, entering depths deep within with just his fingers alone. It drove you to madness, and when you finally came, you came hard. Heavy breathing, panting, whimpering. You were a mess—an angel caught in the grasps of a devil.

“Regretful?” Sukuna teased, petting your hair as you rested your figure against his shoulder.

Breathless, you replied, saying, “Should I be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Sukuna didn’t let you go until the sun came up. And, even then, he wasn’t truly satisfied; but you were exhausted by then, your legs barely held you up, and you had probably also forgotten your own name, so Sukuna took pity on you. The two of you had gone at it like rabbits; Sukuna showed you what it really meant to be locked out of Heaven for years, and how it felt to experience it for the first time since.

What’s funny, was that you and Sukuna had the same amount of experience, and yet, you felt as if Sukuna touched you like you weren’t even close to being his first. He trailed searing hot kisses down your shoulder blades, groped at your chest and ass with carnal desire, and after easing you with his fingers, fucked you with his cock like he had every intention to get you with child.

Your throat was raw, dry, scratchy, from all the sounds that Sukuna elicited from you. His thrusts were hard, and reached so deep within you, that you could’ve been convinced he was hitting your womb.

With your back flush against his chest, Sukuna wrapped a hand around your throat while you leaned your head back against his shoulder as Sukuna fucked his cock into you. He was merciless; thick and long. And you couldn’t count how many times your eyes rolled back into your head even if you tried. You were overwhelmed by how utterly full you felt, combined with Sukuna’s breath fanning your ear every once in a while, as he leaned down to whisper filthy language in your ear.

It was nothing like you had ever felt before, but it was everything you ever dreamed of. It was dirty—what the two of you were doing. But it felt so, so good.

God may have made you in His image: to look, to sound, to taste like Heaven—so others may be tempted to seek paradise, as well, but as He looks down upon his creation, under the dark sky, hidden beneath the clouds, He knows you are nothing but sin. And, if that wasn’t enough, so did Sukuna.

***

Sukuna was no more afraid of shotguns than he was of God.

You learned that the week you decided to come home after living with Sukuna for some time away from your father. You were moved by the deeply troubling feeling of missing the sound of your mother’s voice, and you had almost even forgotten the feeling of her hands touching your hair. A mother’s love was . . . you couldn’t quite define it, but you knew: to have none, was to be none.

When you knocked on the door of your home, you did not regret, for even a second, the declined opportunity of bringing Sukuna along with you. You told him you would be alright going by yourself, and if you weren’t, how were you to face God on the day of judgement?—You started alone, you could end alone. On the third knock, the birch door opened, and you did not see your mother’s face; in lieu, you saw his face.

He was not happy to see you.

Without a moment’s waste, and with your fist still raised mid-air to give another knock, you were taken by the arm, and into the house.

“Do you not listen?”

“. . .Do you speak of my returning? Father, I am your daughter, and no matter how much you resent me, I will still be made of half your DNA.”

“I believe I made myself crystal clear when I told you no daughter of mine will dally with an atheist.”

“But—”

Your father’s grip tightened around your wrist. “You are twenty years of age. Twenty! And this is what you do?”

“Come again?”

“You think I have no idea what you have been up to? I am your father, young lady. I would be a damn fool if I did not know that my own daughter was living with Sukuna Ryomen. Under his roof, eating his food, sleeping in his bed?”

“I had no choice—”

“No choice? Marrying a much better man is definitely still a choice you can make.”

Your father dragged you to the entrance of your bedroom; his strength outmatched yours, even as you tugged your wrist back, and grounded the balls of your feet to keep from moving.

“Father, what are you—! You’re hurting me . . . stop! Don’t—”

“I expected so much from you, and you have done nothing but disappoint me.” Your father finally let go of your wrist, releasing you once you entered your room with a thud as you hit the floor, after losing balance. “You gave yourself to that devil, and now, not even God can look you in the eye anymore.”

The door was slammed shut, locks you did not remember installing were put into place, and you were alone. Inside your bedroom, with nothing but yourself and your prayers. The window had been boarded up prior to your return, which gave you the impression your father had been waiting and planning in order to lock you up, or, in other words, keep you from sinning any more.

You did not hear from anyone for days, and neither your father nor your mother brought any rations or bits of food. It was so, so cold in there. Barely any light seeped through the wood boards nailed on your window, and you couldn’t even hear the singing of the birds. It was as if . . . everyone had, simply, left you.

You slept most of the time, because you had no source of entertainment. You rested your head against the wall while sitting on the floor, and tried to pray for any change of mind from your father, (because God knows where your mother was during this whole ordeal), but it only made you feel more ashamed of yourself—seeing as you did not have a rosary in your hands, or a crucifix, or a cross. You had thrown yours into the river, remember?

Maybe God frowned upon you for losing your virginity with such haste, and before joining in matrimony, no less, but, surely, you did not deserve this punishment, right? Staying with a man who did not believe in your God . . . didn’t harm anyone. Your father had no right to persecute for something such as this; this should’ve been left up to the will of God for any judgement.

In truth, you did not know how you managed to survive so long in such isolation. You slept, but you did not dream. And you could not eat, for you had no food. No sunlight, no water, no air. You felt as if you were suffocating, as if the walls of your bedroom were closing in on you day by day. But, maybe that was just a trick of your eyes—decievement; produced by having not been outside for so long.

On the third day, you heard it.

The sound of a shotgun. The cries of birds as they scattered through the air. The screams of distressed neighbors and residents of Bromwell as they gathered together.

It was dark outside; you could tell, for no sunlight seeped through cracks of the boards and panels on your window. You were sitting just beneath the sill, and when you heard the crisp, almost deafening, sound of a shotgun being fired, you scrambled from your spot on the ground, and cursed to yourself when you realized you could see nothing outside but darkness.

The gun was fired near the front of your house, and you almost wondered who the shooter was, but when you figured this could soon be your end, you thought nothing could be worse than being locked up in your own bedroom for a false truth.

Was it your father?—Who fired? Or was he who was fired at? you wondered.

You did not wonder for long, however, because only a second later, your door was kicked open, and lo and behold: Sukuna. Holding a shotgun over his shoulder, panting—as if he had just run a lap, or several—and beckoning for you to follow him. He took you by the hand and hurriedly led you out of your bedroom and out of your godforsaken house using the back entrance. You asked a plethora of questions as you went, but Sukuna didn’t answer any of them until you two were crouched behind and under a large tree a few miles away from your house.

Sukuna told you to be quiet, to steady your breathing, and to remain out of sight; but that just freaked you out more.

“Are you going to tell me what on earth is going on here? How did you even know where I was? And what—what is the shotgun for?”

Sukuna let out a dry laugh. “You haven’t changed at all; still ask a shit ton of questions, huh.”

“Explain, or I’ll strangle you.” You repeated yourself.

“The preacher’s daughter is so kinky, who knew?” Sukuna teased. “But, alright, I’ll bite.

“I realized something was the matter when you didn’t return home that night you left. I was hoping you just really missed your mother, so I gave it the benefit of the doubt. But, now, I kind of regret that.

“Days passed, but I didn’t bother walking up to the door and asking your father where the hell you were, because I knew he would just give me some bullshit to keep me away, so I instead went over to the side of your house, like, you know, how I always do when I sneak in through your window and whatnot?

“When I went to the side of the house, your window was boarded up. And that’s when I knew something was clearly wrong. Obviously couldn’t ask you about it, and also didn’t want to get within three feet of your father, so I took matters into my own hands—”

You cut Sukuna off, asking, “What about the shotgun?”

“I fired it—at the sky. (No one was hurt, if you’re wondering, but I wish someone was.) Anyway: figured it was dark enough for no one to notice me in the act, so I fired it, and then my plan was in action. All your nosy neighbors went to the front of your house to see what was going on, and so did your father. He went outside, too. I took that as an opportunity to run to the back of your house before anyone could spot me, and break in through the backdoor, and then, y’know. We’re here now.”

“You broke into my house to rescue me? Chivalry may not be dead, after all.” You laughed.

Sukuna rolled his eyes; this clearly was not a joking matter. “Your turn. Explain. Why were you locked in your bedroom like Rapunzel or some shit? And why were the windows boarded up?”

You scooted over to sit closer to Sukuna, and sucked in a breath before explaining—explaining everything. Your father and his deranged behavior and actions, your isolation, your lack of food and drink, your loneliness, your longing for your mother and . . . and Sukuna. You whispered that last bit, in hopes that Sukuna wouldn’t hear how ‘pathetic’ you were, but he did, and he didn’t even joke or tease you about it. He . . . missed you, too.

“You know, if there really is a god out there, He’ll have to beg for my forgiveness before I even think of thanking him, but . . . fuck.” Sukuna avoided your eyes. “Do you know how desperate I was?—That I went and prayed to a god I don’t even believe in?”

“What do you mean? Why did you—?”

“I hadn’t seen you in three days. Three days too long. Why would I not worry? Why would I not resolve to begging God?”

“You were worried?” You giggled. “Awh, Sukuna, baby, you’re adorable.” You cupped Sukuna’s face in your hands, and watched as that familiar scowl of his appeared. You missed that grumpy face.

“. . .I don’t know why you missed me those three days, angel. Thought you were smarter than that.”

You frowned. “What do you mean? How could I not—?”

“How could you not? No. How could you? How could you love a man like me? I’m. . .” Sukuna turned away from you, your hands dropped from his face. “I’m nothing like you. You shouldn’t. . . I’m not a good influence on someone as pure-hearted as you. Hell, you make me wonder if the heavens above are really real, or, if Paradise is just . . . just you.”

“Sukuna, what are you going on about? We’ve been together for ages: as classmates, as friends, as a couple, as—as. . .” You paused. “Why are you—?”

“Do you not get it? These hands—these hands that cradle your face and tilt it upwards to lay kisses upon your skin are—”

You forced Sukuna to look at you. “But they cradled me, yes?”

Sukuna did not answer you, instead: he narrowed his eyes. “They are soaked in unfathomable amounts of wrongdoing, push away the Word of your God, and avoid nearing the Body of your savior.”

“But you have not killed, you have not murdered, you have not stolen, you have not. . . I do not see any blood stains visible.”

“You cannot see sin.”

You blinked, furrowing your brows. “The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t. Guilt will not purify anyone.”

“. . .Who is it you speak for?” Sukuna asked, his voice just above a whisper.

“Who is it I do not?”

Sukuna looked at you with intent, then he looked behind you—at your house, and then met your eyes once more, before tangling his hands in your hair and bringing you to meet him in a kiss full of yearning, longing, and want. You two had not embraced, not even touched in days. It went without saying that your body ached for Sukuna, your heart beat for Sukuna, and your soul rejoiced for Sukuna.

Sukuna was a bastard. A cold-blooded bastard. He was not kind, he was not generous, he was not truthful. He did not care for the Bible, did not read the Gospel, and couldn’t give a shit about the Holy Trinity. But, he loved you. Loved you like a dog who had never known anyone else. Loved you like he would die for you, lay his head at your feet for you, and bend his knees before you. Loved you like he would be a martyr for you. Loved you like you were his beacon of light, his goddess, his . . . Saving Grace.

He did not believe in the Lord, he did not believe in the invisible, but he believed in the way you ripped out his heart, kissed it in his name, and dyed your lips red with his blood. A kiss may be the beginning of cannibalism, but Sukuna knew it was you who was for him since the beginning of Time.

When you two pulled back to catch your breaths, Sukuna held you close to him as he leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and whispered in your ear—his voice languid, and gradual, “I do not believe in any god or any goddess. I do not care for any mythical creature or any other of that sort. The only faith I have is in us. The only force I believe in is you and me. And that’s what all my prayers will ever be about.”

Sukuna was a bastard, but you couldn’t have wanted anyone more.

#feedback is much appreciated<3 #sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #sukuna x you #sukuna fluff #sukuna angst #sukuna smut

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vroomvro0mferrari · 2 days ago

Text

LN4 | Vexing Vacation – Part 7

Summary: When you agreed to join your brother on his vacation, sharing a room with his best friend wasn’t part of the plan. Now, that you’re constantly stuck with Lando and his relentless teasing, you’re not sure whether you want to strangle him or kiss him.

Lando Norris x Fewtrell!Reader, one-bed trope, a lot of banter and a hint of forced proximity :)

WC: 2.7K

Warnings: None, I think!

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read the entire series, and for being patient with me for this last chapter! I had some trouble writing it, but I hope it's up to standard :) Enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 6 | Masterlist

Y/N’s brain was fuzzy when she woke up the next morning, as though a fog had settled over her. The room was dim, curtains ruffling slightly from the breeze drifting through the open space. She felt warm and comfy in the big bed until she realised why – she was cuddled up to Lando again. Her first instinct was to pull away till she remembered the night before. The fight, the club, the kiss... They had kissed. She had finally admitted her feelings for Lando, and he had felt the same.

Her lips twitched into a giddy smile the thought, and if her leg wasn’t stuck between Lando’s she probably would have kicked her feet in excitement. Instead, she tightened her grip around Lando’s waist and cuddled closer, pressing her nose against his back as she breathed in his scent. It was only a few more minutes before Lando stirred, his sleepy confusion melting into a lazy smile at the unfamiliar but welcome feeling of her arms wrapped around him.

“Good morning,” he grumbled, turning over to face the woman, his voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi,” she mumbled shyly as Lando pulled her closer.

“How are you feeling this fine morning?” Lando asked her teasingly.

“Good, you?”

“Hm, me too. Especially with you lying next to me,” he replied, grinning cheekily.

Y/N blushed at his blatant flirting – had he always been this obvious? She tried to hide her flushed face in his chest, but Lando had already seen it. He chuckled softly, running a hand through her hair affectionately. He couldn’t be happier: he had the girl of his dreams lying against him, shy and adorable in the way that made his chest ache. After their moment on the beach yesterday, he certainly hadn’t seen this coming.

“We should get ready, no?” Y/N mumbled though she made no move to leave his arms.

“Don’t want to leave the bed yet,” Lando murmured back, tightening his hold on her slightly.

She chuckled. “Well, I think I’d like some breakfast soon. Don’t you?”

“Don’t they have room service here?”

“Lando,” Y/N tutted, resting her chin on his chest so she could watch him, “don’t be ridiculous.”

Lando sighed dramatically. “Fine, but I’m not doing this willingly,” he complained before getting up.

They got ready slowly, taking their time as they got dressed, talking about unimportant things as they waited for the elevator. They walked to the hotel restaurant leisurely, savouring their short moment alone before they saw the others.

“Good morning,” Y/N said cheerfully as she slid into an empty seat at the table.

“Good morning, indeed," Pietra replied, her smirk giving away her suspicion at Y/N’s unusually chirpy behaviour. “Good morning, indeed. "You're in a good mood. Sleep well?” She asked, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

Y/N, unlike her oblivious brother, caught the meaning behind it straight away, a flush coming over her face. “I slept fine,” she replied quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced at her brother. Thank God he never paid attention.

“How was your night?” She deflected, remembering the not-so-secret kisses between her brother and his girlfriend in the elevator. Max smiled cheekily, placing an arm on the back of Pietra’s chair before answering smugly, “Very good.”

Safe to say, Y/N immediately regretted that question, her smile falling from her face straight away. She cleared her throat and shifted awkwardly in her seat. “Right.”

“Any ideas for our last day here?” She continued, desperate to steer the conversation away from last night.

“I mean, it’s rather warm today. We could go to the beach again?” Lando suggested, sending Y/N a discreet wink when she looked at him. Of course, he’d want to – he surely remembered how she’d looked at him yesterday.

“Again? Isn’t there something else we could do?”

“What? You didn’t enjoy the beach? I thought you quite liked the view,” Lando teased, his tone so smug it took all Y/N’s effort not to roll her eyes. “Well, I suppose we could go golfing again,” he continued after pretending to think for a second.

She groaned. “No. I’m not golfing again, especially since you won’t let me drive the cart. Unless,” she added sweetly, batting her eyelashes, “you’ve changed your mind?” Lando merely shook his head, eyes wide as if he’d do anything to avoid that from ever happening again.

Y/N sighed. “Beach it is, then.”

Getting ready for their day trip felt familiar; Lando leaning casually against the doorjamb, pretending to watch her pack her bag while his gaze flitted over her, lingering on the way her cover-up barely concealed her figure. The way his hand rested on her back as they crossed the street, his eyes watching her through the rear-view mirror as he drove – the only difference with yesterday was that they were now… Dating? Y/N wasn’t entirely sure, though. They had talked about their feelings, and that they were mutual, but they hadn’t confirmed where they stood now.

Y/N walked beside Pietra as they headed down the beach in search of the perfect spot to set up. “So, what exactly happened between you and Lando last night? You two seemed very close this morning – closer than ever before, I think. And no more fighting than usual… So? Did you make up or make out?” Pietra said with a mischievous smile as Y/N blushed at her directness.

“Both, I guess,” she mumbled. “But don’t tell Max, we’re not official yet, I think.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she spoke, mentally going over the conversation again.

“You think?” Pietra asked, cocking a brow.

“Well, we admitted we like each other and agreed we didn’t want the kiss to be a one-time thing, but he didn’t exactly ask me to be his girlfriend or anything. So… I think we’re dating? Maybe?”

“Look at you,” Pietra said excitedly, “you’re dating Lando Norris! And you made out? I’m so proud of you!” The smile on her face was big and victorious as she squeezed her closer in a side hug.

Y/N laughed at the expression. “Well, if it weren’t for you, I don’t think we’d have gotten together anytime soon.”

“Hm, I second that.”

“Right? Lando’s not good at flirting, no matter how much he thinks he is.”

Pietra looked at her incredulously. “I hate to say it, but I think you were the problem, babe. You’re as oblivious as your brother; didn’t notice he was in love with you for years. He literally told you straight to your face several times.”

Y/N scoffed. “He did not. Besides, whatever he calls flirting is clearly teasing, or just being annoying.”

“Whatever you say... I won’t tell Max, by the way. But just so you know, he approves.”

“He does? That’s a relief.”

“Yeah, I think he told Lando a few days ago that he knew Lando likes you, and that he was okay with it. So, you’re good. Doesn’t mean you should be kissing or touching in front of him though. But I guess you know that, with how he reacts to you being around men and all.”

Y/N nodded, before thanking her. They settled down in a place on the beach not much later. Y/N layed down her towel, settling down under the shadow of the parasol and rummaging through her bag for her book. She was about to open it when Lando stopped her, pulling her up from her towel before she could get comfortable. “Let’s go swimming this time? Please?” He asked her.

“But my book… I want to finish it before we leave tomorrow,” she mumbled with a pout.

Lando’s hand slid down her arm to hold her hand, slightly pulling on it. “Just a little while,” he tried again. “Or do I have to steal it away from you again?”

Y/N’s pout morphed into a sneaky smile at his need for attention before she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Alright, then.”

Lando grinned at her response, waiting for her to rid of her cover-up. He was watching her intently, taking in her beauty, the way her hair moved in the warm breeze, and how the sunlight lit up her skin. His adoring gaze was obvious, even to Max, and although Max already knew about Lando’s crush on his sister (or rather, his infatuation), Lando didn’t want to provoke him. He quickly averted his eyes, feigning interest in the shells littering the beach, and pulled Y/N along as soon as she was ready, wanting to be away from Max’s prying sooner rather than later.

Once the water was up to their waists and Max and Pietra were far away, Lando tugged Y/N closer, planting a soft kiss on her lips. She reciprocated immediately, holding onto his shoulders tightly while his hands steadied her in the rocking water.

“Lando,” Y/N murmured between his kisses, and he only hummed in response.

“We need to be careful, Lan,” she said when he finally gave her enough space to pull away.

A frown came over his face. “Careful? What do you mean?”

“Max,” Y/N clarified. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to let him in on this just yet. I mean, I’m not even sure what this is exactly…”

“You’re not sure what we are?” Lando asked, his grip on her waist tightening.

“I mean… We never talked about what—”

“We did,” Lando cut her off. “I said I like you, you said you like me, we said we don’t want this to be a one-time thing. You’re my girlfriend now.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily stunned. Her lips parted slightly as she processed his words, and Lando smiled, clearly entertained by her reaction.

“You always overcomplicate everything. It’s not that difficult, Y/N.”

Lando’s fingers combed through her hair before settling on her jaw, pulling her face a little nearer to his. He leant in closer, his lips hovering just above hers.

“Now that’s settled, can I kiss you in public?”

Y/N laughed softly before nodding, pulling him into another kiss – slow, soft, adoring. Her hands trailed up his shoulders, to the hair at the edge of his neck where she pulled him closer, just for a little while.

“So where did we land on the brother problem?”

“You can decide. He’s your brother. If you want him to know, we’ll tell him. If not, I don’t mind keeping this just between us for a bit,” Lando stated, his hand sliding down her back reassuringly.

“I’m not sure,” she said, fiddling with the hair at the back of Lando’s head. “P told me that he’s alright with it, that apparently he told you it’s okay.” Lando nods in response, confirming that Pietra was correct. “What do you think?”

“He’ll figure it out eventually. We might as well tell him now so we won’t have to hide it.”

Y/N hummed in thought, considering the options. “You’re right, so we tell him?”

“Perfect. Let’s tell him after lunch. That gives us a few hours to mentally prepare, and, you know, enjoy this.”

He leant in for another kiss, and Y/N laughed softly, letting herself melt into it before she pushed him away, into the water. Lando looked at her in shock and offence when he resurfaced.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he said, shaking water from his hair before lunging for her. Y/N squealed, attempting to escape, but Lando grabbed her leg, pulling it out from under her. She fell into the water with a laugh, splashing him in retaliation.

– – – – –

Back on the beach, Max was sprawled out under the sun, seemingly attempting to get a tan while Pietra was reading her magazine. When two shadows fell over her, she glanced up, her lips twitching into a knowing smirk when she noticed the poorly hidden intertwined pinkies.

“Have fun?” she asked, her voice light and teasing.

Y/N cleared her throat, quickly dropping her hand from Lando’s. “It was fine,” she replied, her tone casual but her cheeks betraying her with a slight flush.

They rested in the sun for a while, to dry up, before they grabbed lunch at one of the nearby stands. Y/N slid onto the bench of one of the picnic tables, her box of food in hand.

Lunch was casual, though Y/N couldn’t ignore the tension building inside her. She picked at her food, stealing occasional glances at Max, who seemed blissfully unaware of anything out of the ordinary.

To be fair, the situation almost seemd normal, if it wasn't for Lando. Throughout the meal, he constantly leant in close to whisper something in her ear, or he rested his hand on her thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles that made it hard to concentrate. He stole fries off her plate with zero shame, grinning mischievously when she swatted his hand away and teased her when she spilt ketchup on her cover-up. Not to mention, he would lean into her personal space whenever he felt like it.

Lando's confidence only heightened her nerves; he was so obvious in his affection, so unbothered by the risk of Max noticing it. It was honestly a wonder Max hadn't commented on it yet, but he would if Lando didn't stop soon.

When they finished eating, Lando straightened up in his seat and clapped his hands together, the sound loud enough to catch everyone's attention. Y/N closed her eyes and rubbed her face at his approach, already knowing this would not end well.

"So, Max," Lando started, his voice confident.

Max frowned, confused at the sudden seriousness. “What?”

“There’s something we want to tell you," he continued, glancing at Y/N.

Y/N told herself not to worry – Max had already given his blessing, right? It didn't stop her body from tensing up, though. Lando noticed straight away, slightly squeezing her thigh in attempt to reassure her, but it had the opposite effect. Why was he touching her like that when her brother was sitting right there, focused on them?

Max raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of them as he narrowed his eyes. “Okay...?”

Y/N swallowed hard. “Lando and I, uh, we’re sort of...”

“Dating,” Lando finished for her, his voice confident and steady.

Max blinked, processing their words, before leaning back in his seat. His brows lifted in genuine surprise as he looked at Lando. “You convinced her?”

Lando chuckled before leaning back in his seat with a triumphant smile. “Took some work, but yeah, I did.”

Y/N shot Lando a glare, her face heating. “Took some work? You make it sound like I was impossible or something.”

“You kind of were,” Lando teased, his grin widening. “Stubborn as hell. But that’s part of your charm.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible, honestly,” she trailed off before turning to her brother. “But… You’re okay with it? Not that we need your approval or something, I’d just like you to be okay with it,” Y/N asked her brother nervously.

“Yeah, I told Lando earlier this week. I think he’s good for you, just thought it would’ve taken him longer to convince you of that.” Max shrugged nonchalantly, taking another sip of his drink.

Y/N narrowed her eyes at the hidden jab but let it slide, instead focusing on the approval part, and the relief she felt because of it. She let out a breath. “Okay. That’s good.”

Her hand found Lando’s under the table, their fingers intertwining as she turned toward him, her lips curling into a small smile. “That’s good,” she repeated.

She felt herself relax at her brother’s blessing, as if it was all the confirmation she needed to believe she made the right choice. She glanced up at Lando as he joked around with her brother, watching his eyes crinkle as he grinned, and she realised it felt right – she and Lando felt right.

– – – – –

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urdreamydoodles · 2 days ago

Note

Could we get some headcannons on how X-Men characters would deal with an s/o who struggles with verbal communication? (I was thinking someone who just struggles with words but they could be deaf or mute as well)

Like instead of talking they use notes, or gestures, or even actual sign language to communicate. I was thinking it’s usually done when the reader is struggling to ask for something directly, or just convey what they’re thinking.

(I wasn’t sure if you’d want specific characters to think of or if you’d want free rein, but I’ll list a few of my favourites; Wolverine, Nightcrawler, Gambit, Storm, Morph, Magneto, Beast)

X-Men x Reader

You struggles with verbal communication

Characters: Logan Howlett, Remy LeBeau, Kurt Wagner, Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Morph, Erik Lehnsherr, Hank McCoy, Jean Grey, Rogue, Cable & Wade Wilson

Logan Howlett aka. Wolverine

- You’d been living at the mansion for a while, and while most people understood your struggle with verbal communication, Logan didn’t seem to get it at first. He wasn’t rude about it, but his gruff nature often led him to misinterpret your gestures. “What, you can’t just spit it out?” he’d ask, crossing his arms. You’d roll your eyes and scribble something on a notepad, sliding it over to him with a sharp look. He’d grumble but take it, slowly realizing how much effort you were putting into every interaction.

- Logan started paying closer attention over time. He noticed how your hands moved when you gestured, how your eyes flicked to certain objects when you wanted something. He wasn’t the type to ask outright, but he started observing quietly, learning your nonverbal cues like he was piecing together a puzzle. One day, you found him practicing basic ASL signs in the corner of the library. “Figured it might make things easier,” he said when you caught him, scratching the back of his neck.

- He surprised you by using those signs during casual conversations, albeit a bit clumsily at first. When you were struggling to ask for help one day, he simply signed, What do you need? It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to bring tears to your eyes. “Don’t get all weepy on me, kid,” he grumbled, handing you a tissue. Still, the small smile tugging at his lips showed he was proud of himself.

- Logan’s protectiveness shone through in unexpected ways. If someone gave you a hard time about not speaking, he’d step in with a sharp glare that could silence a room. “Got a problem with how they communicate?” he’d growl, leaving no room for argument. You never asked him to defend you, but his unwavering support made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t before.

- Over time, the two of you grew closer. Logan’s patience, hidden beneath his rough exterior, was a balm to your insecurities. One evening, after a particularly long day, you handed him a note that read, Thank you for understanding me. He read it silently, then looked up at you with an intensity that made your heart race. “Ain’t nothin’ to thank me for,” he said softly. “You’re worth the effort.”

- The shift from friendship to romance was seamless. Logan wasn’t one for grand declarations, but his actions spoke volumes. He started carrying a small notepad for you, just in case you ran out of paper. And when he kissed you for the first time, it was tender, unhurried, as if he was trying to convey all the words he knew you struggled to say. “You don’t need words with me, darlin’,” he whispered against your lips. “I get you just fine.”

Remy LeBeau aka. Gambit

- Remy was instantly intrigued by your quiet nature, his curiosity piqued when he saw you using gestures and notes to communicate. “Mon cher, you always this mysterious?” he teased with a charming smirk. At first, you thought he was just flirting like he did with everyone, but his genuine interest shone through when he started trying to decode your gestures without making you uncomfortable.

- He quickly turned your communication struggles into a game, guessing what you were trying to say with an exaggerated flair. “You tryin’ to tell me you hungry? Or you just wanna see ol’ Remy look like a fool?” he’d say, making you laugh silently. His lighthearted approach made it easier for you to relax, even when you struggled to get your point across.

- One evening, when you left a sketchpad on the table with a note reading, I’m not sure how to ask for help, Remy’s teasing demeanor softened. “Cher,” he said quietly, taking a seat beside you, “you don’t gotta be afraid to ask me for nothin’, yeah? I’ll figure it out.” His reassurance, paired with his playful charm, made you feel safe in ways you hadn’t expected.

- Remy’s natural adaptability shone as he started learning little tricks to help you communicate. He began carrying a deck of blank cards, writing quick responses or questions for you to use. “See? Now we both got somethin’ to write on,” he’d say with a wink, making the process feel less daunting. He even started teaching you French phrases, encouraging you to write them down when words failed.

- The moment things shifted between you two was subtle but impactful. One night, you handed him a note that simply read, I like you. His red eyes glimmered with mischief as he read it, but his smile was surprisingly tender. “Well, cher,” he said, leaning in closer, “guess it’s only fair I tell you somethin’, too.” Before you could respond, he pressed a soft kiss to your hand, his actions speaking louder than words ever could.

- Dating Remy was like navigating a whirlwind of charm and affection. He made it clear that he adored you, using every opportunity to show you how much he cared. From spontaneous gestures to quiet moments where he’d sit beside you, letting your notes and signs speak volumes, Remy proved that your unique way of communicating only made him fall for you harder.

Kurt Wagner aka. Nightcrawler

- Kurt noticed your struggle with verbal communication almost immediately, his empathetic nature drawing him toward you. “You do not speak much, ja?” he asked one day, his tone gentle and curious. When you nodded, he didn’t press further, instead offering you a warm smile. “I understand. We all have our ways.”

- He quickly adapted to your communication style, finding joy in the way you used gestures and notes. “It is like learning a new language,” he said with excitement, his tail flicking behind him. “And I am always eager to learn.” His enthusiasm made it easier for you to open up, his patience and kindness making every interaction feel effortless.

- One day, you hesitated, struggling to express something important. Kurt noticed your frustration and gently placed a hand on yours. “Take your time,” he said softly, his golden eyes filled with understanding. When you finally handed him a note that read, I don’t know how to ask for help sometimes, he nodded solemnly. “You never have to worry about that with me,” he assured you. “I am here for you, always.”

- Kurt began incorporating small acts of reassurance into your daily life, like leaving you notes of encouragement or learning more ASL to communicate with you better. His joy when you taught him new signs was infectious. “Did I do it right?” he’d ask, his tail curling nervously as he signed a simple phrase. Your smile was all the confirmation he needed.

- The turning point came one evening when you handed him a note that read, I think I’m falling for you. Kurt’s eyes widened, and a faint blush colored his blue cheeks. “Mein Schatz,” he whispered, his voice full of emotion. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.” He pulled you into a gentle hug, his tail wrapping around you in a protective embrace.

- Being with Kurt was like stepping into a world of unwavering kindness and affection. He made it his mission to understand you, to support you in every way possible. “You do not need words to tell me how you feel,” he said one day, his fingers tracing your hand. “I can see it in your eyes. And I will always speak for the both of us, if you need.”

Scott Summers aka. Cyclops

- Scott was initially unsure of how to approach you. He respected your quiet nature but didn’t want to overstep. When he saw you using notes and gestures to communicate, he made a conscious effort to pay attention, his leadership instincts kicking in. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make things easier,” he said one day, his tone sincere.

- He started picking up on your cues quickly, his analytical mind piecing together patterns in your gestures. “You don’t have to rush,” he’d say whenever you hesitated, giving you the space to communicate at your own pace. His patience surprised you, his usually stoic demeanor softening in your presence.

- One day, after a training session, you handed Scott a note that read, I feel like I’m slowing everyone down. He frowned, shaking his head firmly. “That’s not true,” he said, his voice steady. “You’re part of this team, and we support each other. Don’t ever feel like you’re a burden.” His words were firm but full of warmth, his unwavering belief in you shining through.

- Scott began making small adjustments to accommodate your communication style, like keeping a whiteboard in the common areas or encouraging others to be more patient. “It’s not about how you communicate,” he told you one evening. “It’s about making sure you’re heard.” His support made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t before.

- The moment your relationship shifted was quiet but profound. You handed Scott a note that read, I care about you more than I can say. He read it silently, then looked up at you with a rare, soft smile. “I care about you too,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. The kiss that followed was tender, his hands cradling your face like you were something precious.

- Being with Scott meant being with someone who valued every part of you. He made sure you always felt included, never letting your struggles define you. “You don’t need to say a word,” he told you one day, his hand resting over yours. “I’ll always understand.” His quiet devotion was a constant reminder that love didn’t need words to thrive.

Ororo Munroe aka. Storm

- Ororo was naturally drawn to your quiet strength. She noticed your use of notes and gestures early on, her sharp intuition picking up on how you often hesitated to ask for help. She approached you with her characteristic grace, offering you a kind smile. “You speak in your own way,” she said softly. “And I’d like to listen, if you’ll let me.” Her calm understanding put you at ease immediately.

- Ororo quickly adapted to your style of communication. She never rushed you, instead waiting patiently for you to finish writing or signing. “Take your time,” she’d say whenever she noticed you struggling. Her respect for your pace made you feel valued, and you found yourself opening up more around her.

- One day, you handed her a note that read, I don’t know how to ask for what I need sometimes. Ororo’s serene expression softened, and she placed a gentle hand over yours. “You’ve already asked by sharing this with me,” she said. “Let me help you carry that weight.” Her words felt like a soothing balm, her unwavering support reassuring you in ways you hadn’t expected.

- Over time, Ororo began incorporating subtle gestures to show her understanding. She’d leave small notes of encouragement in places she knew you’d find them, or create gentle winds to carry your written messages to her during training sessions. Her actions spoke louder than words, and they reminded you daily of her care for you.

- The turning point came during a quiet evening in the garden. You handed Ororo a note that read, I think I’m falling for you. Her silver hair shimmered in the moonlight as she read your message, a radiant smile spreading across her face. “The feeling is mutual,” she said, her voice filled with warmth. She leaned in to kiss your forehead, her touch as gentle as a summer breeze.

- Being with Ororo was like standing in the eye of a storm—peaceful yet powerful. She made you feel seen and cherished, her understanding and empathy creating a safe space for your love to flourish. “Your voice is beautiful,” she told you one day, tracing your hand with hers. “Even if it’s not always spoken aloud, it still reaches me.”

Kevin Sydney aka. Morph

- Morph immediately took an interest in you, his playful nature making him curious about your quiet demeanor. “So, what’s the deal?” he asked one day, his tone lighthearted. When you handed him a note explaining that you struggled with verbal communication, his face lit up with excitement. “A challenge, huh? I love a good puzzle!”

- He made it his mission to understand your gestures and notes, often turning your interactions into a game. “Okay, charades it is!” he’d say, mimicking your motions in exaggerated ways that made you laugh. His humor took the pressure off, and you found yourself enjoying his company more than you expected.

- One day, you scribbled a note that read, I’m not good at asking for help. Morph read it aloud, then gave you a dramatic bow. “Lucky for you, I’m great at helping!” he said with a grin. Despite his joking tone, his sincerity was evident in the way he stuck around, always ready to lend a hand.

- Morph’s shape-shifting abilities came in handy when it came to communicating. He’d transform into a giant hand to mimic your gestures or into a cartoonish version of himself to make you laugh when you were feeling down. His creativity knew no bounds, and his efforts to connect with you were as entertaining as they were heartfelt.

- The moment things shifted between you was as spontaneous as Morph himself. You handed him a note that read, I think I like you. He gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “I knew it!” he said, pulling you into a spin. When he set you down, his usual joking demeanor softened, and he leaned in to kiss you gently. “I like you too,” he said with uncharacteristic tenderness.

- Being with Morph was an adventure in every sense of the word. He made sure you never felt isolated, using his humor and shape-shifting to keep things light and fun. “You don’t have to say a word,” he told you one day, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “I can read you loud and clear, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Erik Lehnsherr aka. Magneto

- Erik was initially perplexed by your communication style, his analytical mind trying to make sense of your hesitations. When he realized you relied on notes and gestures, he was intrigued rather than dismissive. “An unconventional approach,” he mused. “But effective, nonetheless.” His curiosity made you nervous at first, but his lack of judgment slowly put you at ease.

- He began studying your gestures with the same intensity he applied to everything else, determined to understand you fully. “Communication is an art,” he said one day, watching as you wrote something down. “And you are a master of it, even without words.” His respect for your efforts made you feel seen in a way you hadn’t experienced before.

- One evening, you handed Erik a note that read, I feel like I’m a burden. He read it silently, his expression darkening. “You are not a burden,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You are resourceful, intelligent, and resilient. Never diminish yourself in my presence again.” His words, though blunt, were filled with an undeniable care that warmed your heart.

- Erik’s efforts to support you were both subtle and grand. He’d manipulate small metal objects to write words in the air for you or create intricate metal sculptures to convey messages when you struggled. His actions showed a thoughtfulness that contrasted sharply with his usual stern demeanor.

- The turning point came during a quiet moment in his study. You slid him a note that read, I care about you more than I can say. Erik’s sharp eyes softened as he read your words. He set the note down carefully, then reached for your hand. “And I care for you,” he said, his voice low and steady. His kiss was deliberate, filled with the kind of intensity that only Erik could bring.

- Being with Erik was like standing beside a force of nature—powerful, unyielding, and deeply protective. He made sure you always felt valued, his actions speaking louder than any words ever could. “You don’t need to speak,” he told you one evening, his hand resting gently on yours. “Your presence is enough.”

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

- Hank was fascinated by your unique way of communicating, his scientific mind eager to understand the nuances of your gestures and notes. “A fascinating approach,” he said the first time he saw you write something down. “May I inquire further?” His genuine interest made you feel less self-conscious, and you found yourself opening up to him quickly.

- He started keeping a notebook nearby, jotting down your cues and gestures like he was studying a new language. “It’s remarkable how much you can convey without words,” he said one day, his admiration evident. His encouragement made you feel proud of your communication style, rather than ashamed of it.

- One afternoon, you left a note in his lab that read, I feel like I’m too much work for people. When Hank found it, his brow furrowed, and he immediately sought you out. “You are never too much work,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “If anything, you’ve taught me to see the world in a new way, and I’m grateful for that.”

- Hank’s support manifested in practical ways. He developed small devices to make it easier for you to communicate, like a digital notepad that converted your writing into speech. “A little invention of mine,” he said with a sheepish smile. “I hope it’s helpful.” His thoughtfulness left you speechless, your gratitude clear in the way you hugged him tightly.

- The moment your relationship shifted was as gentle as Hank himself. You handed him a note that read, I think I’m falling for you. Hank read it carefully, his blue fur bristling slightly as he looked up at you with wide eyes. “The feeling is mutual,” he said, his voice soft. His kiss was tentative but warm, filled with the quiet intensity that defined him.

- Being with Hank was like being wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and understanding. He made sure you always felt supported, his kindness and intellect creating a safe space for your love to grow. “Your voice is unique,” he told you one day, his hand resting over yours. “And I consider it an honor to understand it.”

Jean Grey aka. Marvel Girl / Phoenix

- Jean noticed your quiet demeanor and alternative way of communicating long before you realized. She often caught glimpses of your emotions through her telepathy, though she never intruded. When you passed her notes or gestured instead of speaking, she responded with patience and understanding, letting you take the lead. “Take your time,” she’d say softly, her gentle smile a constant reassurance.

- Jean quickly adapted to your style, finding ways to bridge the gaps in communication. She subtly enhanced your gestures with her telepathy, sensing what you meant before you could even fully convey it. “It’s like we have our own secret language,” she teased one day, her green eyes sparkling. Her ability to meet you halfway made you feel less alone.

- One day, during a quiet moment in the mansion’s library, you hesitated before passing her a note. It read, Sometimes, I feel like I don’t belong here. Jean’s expression softened as she read it, and she reached out to take your hand. “You belong wherever you choose to be,” she said, her voice filled with conviction. “And right now, I’m glad you’re here with me.”

- Jean began leaving small notes for you as well, little affirmations that brightened your day. “You’re stronger than you think,” one read, tucked under your door. “You don’t have to say a word for me to know how amazing you are,” said another, left with your breakfast. These gestures reminded you that she was always thinking of you, even in the smallest ways.

- The shift in your relationship came during a walk through the garden. You handed her a note that read, I care about you, more than I probably should. Jean’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and she reached up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Good,” she said softly. “Because I feel the same way.” Her kiss was gentle and warm, like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

- Being with Jean felt like basking in a calm, nurturing presence. She understood you deeply, both through her powers and her heart. “You don’t need words to express yourself,” she told you one day, her hand resting lightly on your cheek. “You’ve already said everything I need to hear.”

Anna Marie aka. Rogue

- Rogue was drawn to your quiet, introspective nature. She was no stranger to feeling out of place, and when she noticed your reliance on notes and gestures, she connected with you immediately. “Ah reckon we’re both a little unconventional,” she said one day, her Southern drawl soft. “But that’s what makes us unique.”

- She made it her mission to understand your style of communication, often using humor to lighten the mood. “What’s this one mean?” she’d joke, mimicking your gestures dramatically. Her teasing was never mean-spirited, and her playful attitude made it easier for you to relax around her.

- One afternoon, you left her a note that read, I’m afraid people will get tired of me. Rogue’s gloved hand tightened around the paper, her expression shifting to one of fierce determination. “Sugar, if anyone ever makes ya feel that way, they’re not worth your time,” she said firmly. “Ah’ll never get tired of ya, that’s for sure.”

- Rogue’s physical limitations due to her powers didn’t stop her from showing her care. She’d use small gestures like slipping notes into your jacket pocket or brushing her covered hand against yours to reassure you. Her creativity in expressing her feelings mirrored your own, making you feel understood on a deeper level.

- The turning point came during a late-night conversation in the mansion’s common room. You passed her a note that read, I think I’m falling for you. Rogue’s green eyes widened, and she bit her lip nervously. “Ah’ve been feelin’ the same way,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She leaned in, her gloved hand cupping your cheek as she kissed you carefully, mindful of her powers.

- Being with Rogue was like finding a kindred spirit. She understood the challenges of feeling different and made sure you never felt isolated. “You don’t need to say a thing, darlin’,” she told you one day, her smile soft and warm. “Ah know exactly how ya feel.”

Nathan Summers aka. Cable

- Cable’s gruff exterior initially made you hesitant to approach him, but he surprised you with his patience and attentiveness. He noticed your preference for notes and gestures right away, his keen tactical mind quickly adapting to your style. “Communication’s about understanding,” he said once. “Doesn’t matter how you do it, as long as it works.”

- Despite his hardened demeanor, Cable showed surprising softness when it came to you. He’d take your notes seriously, his cybernetic hand carefully holding the paper as he read. “Got it,” he’d say with a small nod, making you feel heard and respected.

- One day, you scribbled a note that read, I don’t know how to ask for help. Cable’s steel-blue eyes softened as he read it, and he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “You don’t have to ask,” he said simply. “I’ll always have your back.” His words, though straightforward, carried a depth of sincerity that stayed with you.

- Cable’s actions spoke louder than words. He’d leave you supplies he thought you might need or subtly adjust his schedule to be around when he thought you might struggle. His protective nature made you feel safe, even without verbal reassurances.

- The moment your relationship shifted was quiet but profound. You handed him a note that read, I think I’m falling for you. Cable read it, his expression unreadable at first. Then, a rare smile crossed his face. “Guess I’ve been waiting for you to say that,” he said, pulling you into his arms. His kiss was firm yet gentle, a reflection of the man himself.

- Being with Cable was like having a steadfast anchor in a chaotic world. He didn’t need flowery words to show his care; his actions spoke volumes. “You’ve got your way of communicating,” he told you one day, his voice steady. “And I’ve got mine. Together, we make it work.”

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

- Wade was immediately fascinated by your unique communication style. “You’re like a mysterious, silent protagonist,” he quipped one day, leaning dramatically against a doorframe. “Do I get to be the comic relief in your story?” His lighthearted approach put you at ease, though his constant chatter sometimes overwhelmed you.

- He took your notes and gestures as a challenge, often exaggerating his responses to make you laugh. “Oh, I see what you mean!” he’d say, even when he clearly didn’t. His antics were equal parts endearing and infuriating, but his genuine effort to connect with you never wavered.

- One day, you passed Wade a note that read, Sometimes I feel like I’m too much. He stared at it for a moment, unusually quiet. Then he grinned and said, “Too much? Sweetheart, have you met me? You’re like the perfect yin to my yang!” His humor was disarming, but the sincerity in his eyes reassured you.

- Wade found creative ways to communicate with you, often using props, drawings, or even sock puppets to convey his thoughts. “See? Communication is an art form,” he said, holding up a poorly drawn cartoon of the two of you. His efforts were chaotic but heartfelt, showing you how much he cared.

- The shift in your relationship came during a quiet moment in his usually loud life. You handed him a note that read, I think I love you. Wade froze, uncharacteristically speechless. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he scooped you into his arms. “I knew it!” he shouted, spinning you around. His kiss was surprisingly tender, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the mask.

- Being with Wade was unpredictable but filled with joy. He made you feel understood in his own chaotic way, proving that love didn’t need to follow traditional rules. “You don’t need words,” he told you one day, his voice unusually soft. “I get you. And trust me, that’s saying something.”

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